


What If This Storm Ends...

by Vague_Shadows



Series: The Family Business [4]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Azazel's Special Children, Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Teen Wolf/Supernatural - Freeform, early stage sterek, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:45:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek just want to keep strengthening their pack and their new-found relationship. Sam just wants to avenge his brother. But a storm's coming for all of them; when it clears, can they be the same people they were going in?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So the title of this work is from the Snow Patrol song "What If This Storm Ends". What can I say? I'm a sucker for lyrics as titles. 
> 
> We'll finally see the Supernatural crossover again in this part; to keep you on track with the timeline, the teens of the pack are in the summer before their senior year. Sam's in the summer between Seasons 3 and 4 of Supernatural, when Dean's still in hell.

It’s Stiles’ turn to wash up after pack dinner, and, once he’s done, he joins everyone else in the living room watching the Angels play the Astros.  He plops on the couch next to Derek, finding his hand and lacing their fingers together; he still can’t help smiling that he gets to do this. It will never be anything less than insanely awesome that not only can he reach out and claim Derek’s hand like it’s his to have but also that Derek reaches back with a smile in his eyes if not on his face.  Even better they have this in the midst of the awesomeness that comes with an ever-strengthening pack and Stiles having a relationship with his Dad that’s honestly more solid than it’s been since before his mother died.  He tries not to let the worry creep in that this calm between storms can’t last forever; most days it works and he just feels like he’s going to burst with this excessive sense of contentment. 

As the ballgame winds down, Stiles keeps dosing off.  Endurance training days still kick his ass, awesome werewolf powers or not.  Lydia’s been fast asleep in Jackson’s arms for a solid half hour.  She’s out cold with her mouth hanging open, but Stiles doesn’t have a death wish so he resists the urge to snap a picture with his phone. He’s completly unprepared for her face to contort in pain as her eyes fly open, and she flails in Jackson’s arms.

“JACKSON!” she shrieks.  “Jackson, no!”

“Lydia, what’s wrong?” Jackson demands worriedly.

She’s clutching her head as tears stream down her face.  Jackson puts a hand on her neck, and Stiles can see the dark lines spiral up Jackson’s hand as he takes her pain.  He looks to Derek worriedly, but the rest of the pack is just as clueless as Jackson.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Jackson says.  “What hurts? Just your head?”

“It’s not—it’s not that. I’m fine,” Lydia replies, breathing deeply as she tries to regain her composure.  “It was just a nightmare.”

“It’s okay,” Jackson soothes, pulling her into his arms.   “You’re fine now.”

“I saw you die,” she whispers so quietly her voice would have been muffled in his chest to a room full of ordinary people.

Stiles almost decides to say nothing, but, in the end he can’t help himself. 

“Lydia, a nightmare wouldn’t hurt you like that. Was it really a dream or was it—could it have been a vision?”

His mind is racing through all the research he did last summer after Sam Winchester’s call—ways in which psychic powers can present, spells and supernatural concoctions that can bring them on, the likelihood of coming across a real medium—and he can’t just brush this off. What if it’s a warning of something bigger going on? Judging by the look she’s giving him now, Lydia’s wondering the same thing.

Her eyes find Derek, “You’d know if Peter was back, wouldn’t you?” she asks him, fear creeping into her voice, “You’d know, right? You’d tell us.”

“He’s eight hundred miles from here,” Derek assures her.

 “You think it’s something like the hallucinations from Peter?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t know—my skull felt like it was going to split open and the whole thing was so vivid. _Too_ vivid.  Peter-Hale-weirdo-psycho-visions vivid, and—it just—what the hell is it if it can’t be Peter and it wasn’t just a nightmare?”

“You think it’s what Sam has?” Scott asks. 

“Could be,” Stiles says. “I don’t know enough about Sam to know.”

“How did Jackson die?” Derek asks.   Stiles shoots a glare at him.  “If it could be a real premonition, we need to know,” Derek adds unapologetically.

“It was a car wreck,” Lydia replies.  “There was a truck in the road.  He swerved to miss it, and the car just kept rolling and rolling.  He almost got thrown out, but not quite and it—” her eyes find Jackson’s as she shudders and continues, “it crushed you.”

 Everyone in the room grimaces at the idea of it.  It’s a nice punch-to-the-gut sort of reminder that there are still everyday ways for werewolves to die. Expedited healing only gets you so far. Lydia dissolves into tears again, hiding her face against Jackson.  Stiles can only imagine all the various levels of panic running through her mind right now. 

“Hey, shhh, it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m right here, Lydia,” Jackson assures as he runs his fingers through her hair.  “It’s not going to happen. It’ll be fine.”

“How do we keep it from happening?” Scott asks.  “Did anything in the vision tell you when it might be?”

Last summer, it had taken five days for Sam’s vision of Lydia to be realized and thwarted.  Stiles isn’t sure if that’s a typical timeline. He doesn’t even know if this is the same kind of experiences Sam had.  There are too many possibilities and not enough information.  He’s is already itching to get to his computer and start looking for answers, but he barely knows where to start; the topic of psychic abilities is the broadest of anything supernatural.  

“It was night,” Lydia replies.  “It was Highway 23—that sharp curve, you know the one I’m talking about?”

Derek nods.  “Was he coming here or headed back towards town?”

“Back towards town.”

“Anything else?”

“You were wearing this shirt,” Lydia says, her fingers picking at the Polo Jackson’s wearing.

“You think it was tonight?” Isaac asks.

“Maybe?”

“Text your parents,” Derek orders Jackson.  “Tell them you’re staying with a friend.  Lydia, Danny, Scott, Stiles, talk to your parents, too. Say whatever you need to say. No one’s driving that road tonight.”

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles phone rings a few minutes before midnight; they’re playing Call of Duty, even Lydia, who Derek supposes just needs some kind of distraction.  He can’t fault her for it.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles says.  “What’s up?”

"Ask Lydia what kind of truck it was,” the sheriff requests from the other end of the line.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened, just ask her.”

“Lydia?” Stiles says as Scott pauses the game.  “What kind of truck was in the road? Everything you can remember.”

“It was a black pick-up,” she replies.  “A Chevy I think?  The last two letters on the tag were T and R.  That’s it.”

Stiles repeats the information to his father. 

“I came out here once you called,” the sheriff says.  “Just in case.”

"And?”

“And I just helped this guy push his stalled-out black Chevy off the road while he waits for the tow truck.  Last two on the plate are T-R.”

“Holy shit.”

“Whatever happened, I don’t think it was a coincidence.  You better start looking for explanations.”

“Yeah, we will. We’ll figure it out.”

“Keep me posted, kiddo.”

“Yeah, of course, Dad.  See you tomorrow.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

“You too.”

Stiles hangs up with his father and his eyes find Derek’s.  Derek knows what Stiles will ask.  Now that Sam Winchester’s dead, the only way to get information about Sam’s particular visions is through the hunter who sent the Winchesters to Beacon Hills in the first place, Bobby Singer, a man Derek’s never met, never wants to, and damn sure doesn’t trust.  He doesn’t even want Chris Argent knowing about this until they have more information, much less some stranger with a network of hunters to send their way.  It’s too dangerous—but even Derek knows that without some way to narrow down the theories they may never pinpoint exactly what’s going on with Lydia.  He remembers the reams of research Stiles compiled when he started researching after Sam’s call.

“Come on,” Derek says to Stiles.  “We’ll go for a walk.”

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Lydia interjects.  “Whatever you two have to say about this shit, you can say it right here. I want in the loop. I want to know exactly what you’re thinking. I want to know how the hell we plan to handle this, and what you think is going on with me.  You’re not pulling some alpha/second power trip and making decisions about me without my input.”

“Fair,” Stiles replies with a shrug.

Derek wants to argue, but one glace back to Lydia and the frazzled, frightened look in her eyes has him caving.  She’s a lot more terrified than she’s letting on.  Besides, she does have a right to be a part of this conversation.

“You think it’s whatever was happening to Sam,” Lydia says to start them off.  “It’s the best guess we have, but Sam and Dean are dead. How can we get any answers from that?”

 “We know how to get in touch with a friend of theirs,” Stiles says.  “Sam left us the contact in case we ever needed it.”

“No,” Jackson responds almost immediately.  “We’re not telling some random ass hunter that Lydia might be—whatever she is.  No way.”

“But if he was friends with Sam, maybe he knew something.” Lydia counters.  “He didn’t hurt Sam.”

“Maybe he didn’t know about Sam,” Danny replies.  “Do you know how well they knew each other?”

Stiles shrugs.  “I know his name’s Bobby Singer. I know he’s the one who sent Sam and Dean to Beacon Hills. I know he and the Argents know of each other. I know his phone number, and that Sam said to call him for help with research or if we were having hunter troubles. That’s it.”

"So Sam trusted him?” Scott asks.

"Yeah, but do we trust Sam’s judgment that much?”  Isaac puts in. “We knew the guy for a week nearly a year ago.”

“He helped us,” Stiles reminds them.   “He was our friend.”

“Hunters aren’t friends,” Derek counters firmly.  “We just had an agreement, and they honored it.”

“We don’t have to give this Singer guy any details,” Lydia says. “We’ll just ask what he knew about Sam.  It’ll be a starting point at least.”

“I don’t like it,” Derek says firmly.

“Me neither,” Lydia replies, “But given that so far I’ve been immune to an alpha’s bite, hallucinated to the brink of insanity, helped resurrect a dead man, and now I’ve developed death visions I think I’m willing to take a few chances if it means getting a few answers.”

She has a point and Derek knows it, but this is still too much risk. 

“And if your next death vision is a hunter’s arrow through Jackson’s heart because Singer sends someone here to investigate us? What then? Are your answers really worth that risk?” Derek demands, going for the low blow.

It works—more or less. Lydia’s still glaring determinedly at him, but she doesn’t challenge the question. 

“We can hold our own,” Stiles says firmly, and Derek turns to face him.  “I don’t think Sam would leave us with the number of a hunter who’d want us dead, but, even if Singer does, we can hold our own.  I say we try to figure out what’s going on.  The last time we didn’t bother figuring out what was wrong with Lydia, Peter won.  The Winchesters died in the most suspicious sounding gas explosion I’ve ever heard of.  This isn’t a question of risk or no risk.  It’s a question of risking Bobby Singer and whoever he could send or risking whatever could happen with Lydia if we don’t know what’s going on.”

Derek runs a hand down his face in frustration.  Once it’s phrased out like that, there’s no good option.  Stiles has a perfectly valid point.  It’s a decision between a known threat they can gauge or the unknown that could be any level of harmless or devastating. 

“You think whatever killed them had something to do with the visions?” Jackson asks Stiles.

"I think a man with death visions would never just walk into a situation like that, and he definitely wouldn’t take his brother with him.  I don’t know what it was that killed them—they were hunters, it could’ve been a million things—but  it was no normal gas leak.  I don’t like wondering what it was and wondering if it was tied to his visions and if that could then affect us if Lydia’s going through the same stuff. It’s too many unanswered questions.  If we call Singer, we could get some answers or at least get a starting point.  This could be nothing to worry about or it could be something big.  Stumbling through the research blindly shouldn’t be our first choice of action here.  We’re getting stronger, and I think we’re strong enough to take this risk of hunters coming.”

“We’ll see,” Derek says finally.

They all want to keep arguing, but they don’t.  It’s honestly a sign that they’ve gotten to know Derek better this past year—to know he has to think about anything like this and to know that arguing just makes it harder for him to muddle through it objectively.  He’s a little too preoccupied with the imminent problem to fully appreciate the sign of pack solidarity, but he can recognize it nonetheless.

They put in a movie and most of the group stays in the living room despite the fact they’re all falling asleep where they sit.  Lydia’s clearly trying to stay awake as long as possible.  Derek’s nowhere near sleep now; he’s too busy running through their various training sessions for keeping watch and fighting in pairs if they’re attacked away from the pack. They’ve put in a lot of hard work in the past year. Stiles is right; they’re a lot more prepared to defend themselves than they used to be.

It still doesn’t make them invincible.

_Are we really prepared to take on hunters if it came to that? Is it really worth the risk?_

When he can’t stand sitting still any longer, he tries to rise from the couch without jostling Stiles, who’s asleep on his shoulder and been snoring lightly for the past fifteen minutes.  He thinks he succeeded until he hears footsteps following him out on the porch.

“Made up your mind?” Stiles asks.

“Still thinking,” Derek replies.

“Careful. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Shut up.”

Stiles huffs a little before insisting “Come on. We’ll just be asking a couple of questions.” He puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder.  “It’ll be fine.”

“You can’t _possibly_ know that for sure.  It’s a serious risk. You can’t just say shit like that and expect it to gloss over the fact that we’re essentially putting up a neon sign that’s calling attention to our location and the fact that something might be going on here.”

“Whoa, chill out, dude.  I’m just trying to—”

“I know,” Derek bites back, still harsher than he means to be, “but don’t,” he says as he moves away from Stiles’ touch.

“Okay,” Stiles says hands up in mock surrender.  “Fine. I won’t.”

“I’m going to go for a run,” Derek tells him.  “Don’t wait up.”

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles wakes when Derek comes in.  Derek doesn’t say anything, just heads straight for his shower.

“How was your run?” Stiles asks drowsily when Derek comes back out ten minutes later and  starts throwing on clothes to sleep in.

“You’ll call Singer in the morning,” Derek says matter-of-factly, jumping right into the answer of the next question he knows Stiles will ask. “You tell him _nothing_ about Lydia.  You ask him what he knew about Sam’s visions; that’s _all_. Make up whatever lie you want to if he asks why you care.  Once the call’s made, no one goes anywhere alone; humans stay armed at all times; and you all spend every possible moment here.”

“Really?” He'd been gearing up for round two of operation convince-Derek-to-call-Bobby-Singer, not expecting Derek to have already made that decision for himself.

“The pack knows how to fight hunters. I know how we can run from hunters if we have to,” Derek expounds.  “You’re right about Lydia.  We don’t know what to expect from it, which means we have to assume it’s the bigger danger until we can prove otherwise.  I can’t protect the pack if I don’t know what the threat is.”

"It’s not all on you, Derek. We’re big kids; it’s not your job to babysit us.  You don’t have to protect the pack alone.”

“I’m the alpha,” Derek replies simply. 

Stiles hates how aged and exhausted Derek always looks when he says things like that.   

“Yeah, yeah, and with great power comes great responsibility. I know, I know,” Stiles mutters.

He smiles up at Derek, determined to lighten the mood.  Tomorrow they’re all going into hyper-vigilance mode—not that they ever really come out of hyper-vigilance mode—which means tonight is the most carefree he’s going to get Derek for a while.  

“Scoot over,” Derek orders.  “You’re taking up the whole damn bed.”

“You want me to go up to my bed instead?” Stiles replies, sitting up.  “’Cause if you’re just going to complain I can always—”

Derek silences him by leaning down for a kiss.  Stiles can’t keep the grin off his face as he pulls back long enough to say. “That’s what I thought, Sourwolf.”

 “Are you wearing my shirt?” Derek asks with a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Didn’t exactly pack pajamas,” Stiles replies.  He raises an eyebrow.  “I’m guessing you don’t mind?”

“No,” Derek replies, grinning fully and moving in for another kiss.

“If this is the reaction I get, I might just have to steal your whole wardrobe,” Stiles informs him.

“Mmmm hmmm,” Derek agrees distractedly, the hum of it buzzing against Stiles’ throat as Derek kisses his way down Stiles’ neck.

He’s well on his way to marking Stiles with what is sure to be an impressive hicky before Jackson yells from the living room, “So help me God if you two don’t cut it out, I will castrate you both!”

“Seconded,” comes Isaac’s voice from upstairs.

Stiles can’t help that he blushes furiously; Derek just rolls his eyes. 

“Fuck off!” Derek growls back before his lips meet Stiles’ again for one last, quick kiss before he rolls back to his side of the bed.

“Fucking werewolf hearing,” Stiles mutters, and Derek gives an annoyed grunt of agreement.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Dean is rotting in hell, and Sam can’t stop it. 

That is the soul-rending fact that consumes Sam Winchester’s every waking moment.  Even when he can temporarily numb the agony just a little with alcohol or Ruby, the thought never fully retreats.  He retains his sanity only by pouring himself into getting revenge. Not a suicide-by-demon mission like the stunt he pulled a few weeks ago—he’ll be forever indebted to Ruby for saving his stupid ass—but a truly formidable and lethal attack that will decimate Lilith and all the demons that stand alongside her.  If it kills him, he’d honestly be grateful, but, if it doesn’t maybe—just maybe—he’ll be able to sleep at night without the scene of his brother being ripped to shreds playing over and over in his nightmares.

He understands better now how Dad became so obsessed with hunting.  While Jess’ death had Sam grieving and angry and out for blood, the fury had ebbed after a while as he settled back into life on the road with Dean, and Sam kept fighting because it was the family business, not just because of what happened to Jess. Now, the thirst for revenge overpowers every other need and instinct.  Sam will work with a demon, sideline anyone who slows him down, and hone his powers no matter what the physical toll might be.  There is _nothing_ on God’s green earth that will stop him.

Sam may have managed—barely—to exorcise a demon and save Ruby during his haphazard attack on Lilith, but it was nothing compared to the power he’s going to have to exert to actually kill her. He needs practice, and there’s a silver lining in the fact that there’s so many demons still topside from the devil’s gate breach a year ago—a good many of them weaker than others who managed to climb out on their own—that the world in its current state is a perfect training ground.

He’s yet to exorcise another demon fully, but he can at least extract a fair amount of pain from a demon without harming the victim. His other abilities are getting stronger too.  Part of him hates that he’s given in to Ruby’s plan of using fresh demon blood to enhance his inherent strength. He knows Dean wouldn’t like it—doesn’t even _think_ about what Dad would’ve said—but the rush of power that practically sings through his veins when he’s using the fresh demon blood is one of the few things that truly combats the helpless feeling that’s lingered in him since Dean’s death. 

He’s not going to be anyone’s helpless little brother anymore; he’s not going to need saving. He’s going to use this curse as a weapon the likes of which these demons have never seen.

He doesn’t tell Bobby what he’s doing because Bobby would either try to stop him or want to be here fighting along with him, and that would just slow his progress.  He doesn’t have the time or inclination to explain himself to anyone.  Instead, he just lets the older hunter assume Sam’s off grieving somewhere and throwing himself into the job.  He works a few normal cases now and then when Bobby sends them his way.  It’s his way of letting Bobby know he’s alright, since there’s no way in hell he’s returning the phone calls.  He’s not opening that door; he can’t afford to.  As Ruby so often reminds him, he’s got to keep his head in the game.

“Hey, Sam,” Bobby’s voice replays from the voicemail left earlier this afternoon.  “Heard you did a real good job with that shifter in Ann Arbor.  Look, I don’t know what you want to do about it, but the Stilinski kid—you remember the Wielder that hangs around with those werewolves the Argent family watches in California?—called asking questions about you and your visions.  Could be there’s something going on with the Martin girl after all.  You might want to look into it.  Gimme a call; maybe we can work on it together.”

Sam deletes the voicemail and starts packing.

“Where’s the fire?” Ruby asks as she walks in the door from her french-fry run to the diner down the street.

“Beacon Hills.” 

“What’s in Beacon Hills?”

_A threat? An ally? A girl who’s just a little psychic? Or another of Azazel’s Special Children?_

“I don’t know,” Sam replies, grabbing the keys, “but we’re going to find out.”

 

********************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles’ Jeep stalls out a few miles before he reaches the pack house.  He shoots a wary look over to Derek as they coast to the side of the road.  Derek’s tensing, ready to shift. He’s been high-strung to say the least ever since Stiles left the voicemail for Singer early this morning.  Stiles’ hand finds his gun as the lights of an SUV pull up behind them.

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles mutters. “Can’t he ever just use a freaking phone?” he wonders as Chris Argent gets out of his car. 

“Stay in the Jeep,” Derek instructs. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Yeah, because staying in a stalled-out vehicle with a rag top roof will keep me safe,” Stiles replies with a roll of his eyes.  “I think I’ll stand ready to run with easier access to my gun, thanks.”

“Fine.”

Stiles isn’t _actually_ expecting any violence from Chris until the shot fires the minute he’s out of his Jeep.  At this range his heightened senses aren’t enough to get him out of the line of fire.  He feels the sting as the darts sink in and pulls up his gun; he gets two wild shots off before he falls back against the Jeep and starts sliding to the ground.  The last thing he sees before his vision goes dark is Derek flying at Chris with a roar of fury.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll take this moment warn you that I'm not archiving warnings; I'm not sure exactly how dark I'll take it once the final edits are done, but it's not going to be happy fluff feels for a while. Brace yourselves; the angst is coming.

 

Derek regains consciousness in a dim basement, his arms chained above him, stripped to his boxers, and it’s absolutely impossible to keep memories of Kate out of his mind.  He attempts to shift, but the current in the cuffs keep him human.  He struggles mindlessly against his bonds and fights to regain enough calm to evaluate the situation.  It’s dark, but he can smell Argents—Argent basement then?—and blood and—”

“Stiles?!” the cry leaves his lips before he can stop it.

There’s movement from the shadows in front of him, and a light flicks on.

“About time you woke up, Sourwolf,” Stiles says with a malicious grin.  “Tell me, Derek.  How does it feel to the dumb animal who got caught in the same trap _twice_?”

The words are so _Kate_ coming out of Stiles that it makes Derek want to vomit.  He growls, and Stiles laughs again—no, not Stiles—the _thing_ laughs again.

“I mean, come on, _really_? You _really_ thought someone like me, a human kid with my whole life ahead of me, wanted to spend it with a fucked up, broken little monster like you?  You _had_ to see this coming.” Derek doesn’t respond, and the thing in Stiles continues, “Then again, I guess none of it would’ve worked if you we’re such a complete, lovesick idiot.”

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

For one, horrible, terrifying minute, Stiles thinks Derek is going to believe this thing inside of Stiles that’s spouting words he can’t stop— _no Derek, don’t listen, don’t, don’t, it’s not me. You have to know it’s not me. Please, come on. You know me!—_ and then the pain in Derek’s eyes recedes behind a careful mask of checked emotions.

“You’re not him,” he declares.

“Of course I am.”

“I saw your eyes flash out on the road. You’re some kind of demon or—something.  Whatever you are, you’re not him.”

Stiles can feel the moment of debate in the thing—demon?—and feel it give the mental equivalent of a shrug.

“You’re no fun, you know,” it informs Derek, all pretenses gone, “but that was just a little side-joke—an appetizer really—How could I resist once I realized what _fabulous_ material I was working with?  Jaded little puppy, aren’t you, Derek? Don’t worry though; I’ve got plenty of other plans up my sleeve. The real fun hasn’t even started.”

“Can’t wait,” Derek replies dryly. 

“Because see, _usually_ this is the part where I make up all kinds of lies to fuck with your mind.  I’d tell stories and half-truths that will have you two doubting each other from now until judgment day, but the _truly gorgeous_ thing about playing with the big, bad alpha and his little spark-wielding sidekick is that you two crazy kids have enough shit buried inside you that all I have to do _is tell the truth!_ ”

Stiles knows what stories this thing—demon?—might start spouting about him to screw with them.  It sends a new wave of dread coursing through him.  He obviously has no idea what secrets of Derek’s this things means to share, but the momentary look of absolute panic Derek can’t mask is enough for Stiles to know he _never_ wants to hear what’s coming. The laugh that bursts through Stiles’ lips isn’t his own, and it grates on his ears like nails on a chalkboard. 

“Oh, what’s that look? Not _worried_ are you, Derek? Not worried about what your precious little pack pet is going to think when he hears the truth about you and all those deep, dark secrets you try _so_ hard to hide from these unfortunate little souls who are stupid enough to trust _you_ of all people?”

It walks to a table in the corner and opens up a briefcase.  Inside are blades of every shape and size, and Stiles is uncontrollably petrified at the direction this is taking.  The demon selects one of the larger knives. Stiles can feel its grin spreading across his face as it goes back toward Derek.  Stiles is trying desperately to figure out how to fight the thing and regain control of his body, but nothing seems to be happening.

“I’ll make you a deal,” it offers, trailing the tip of the blade down Derek’s bare chest.  “The longer _you_ can keep quiet, the longer _I’ll_ keep quiet.”

As the demon begins to carve at Derek’s torso, Stiles shrieks in protest within his mind.  If he had any control at all he’s be shouting and sobbing and probably puking. He wishes more than anything that he at least had the power to close his eyes because he will never, _ever_ be able to forget this.

Eventually, what seems to be eons later, just when he’s sure he’s going to go irreparably insane with the horror of it, everything turns blessedly black.

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

As he passes the sign welcoming him to Beacon Hills, Sam debates for a moment whether or not to go to Argent or Stiles first.   He doesn’t think Argent would react to Lydia’s abilities like Gordon reacted to Sam’s, but he nevertheless hopes they haven’t told Argent about it.  He decides to head straight for the Stilinskis’.  

Stiles doesn’t answer his calls before Sam reaches the house, so Sam parks on the street and heads for the door. As Sam reaches up to knock, the door flies open, and he’s pulled inside.  He reacts without thinking and finds himself pinning Sheriff Stilinski to the front wall.  Ruby’s used her own powers to send the two young werewolves flying back down the hall.  They rise, shifted into their beta forms but stay where they are.

“Where the hell is my son?” the sheriff demands. 

"He’s not here?”

“Don’t get smart with me, Winchester. Where is Stiles? What do you want with him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I came because Stiles called Bobby.  I came to help answer their questions. Don’t treat me like the bad guy when you’re the one who met me at the door with a gun in your hand.”

“He’s not lying,” Scott says.  “He doesn’t know what’s going on.”

The sheriff seems to sag in Sam’s grasp.  Sam loosens his grip on the older man and moves back to stand near Ruby.

“What’s going on?” Sam asks.  “How long has he been missing?”     

“Almost two days,” Scott says. 

“Any clues?”

“We found his Jeep on the side of the road.”

“You couldn’t track his scent?”

“Everything smelled like sulfur.  It threw us off, and we couldn’t find the trail again.  We’ve tried everything we can do—human or wolf. He’s just gone.”

“Sulfur?” Sam asks.  “That probably means it’s a—”

“Demon,” Scott finishes.  “We know.  You know more about them we do, Sam.  Can you track one?”

“No,” Sam replies, and Scott’s face falls.  “But Ruby knows some spells.  We can try and find him.”

“I’ll get the stuff from the car,” Ruby offers, walking back out the door.  

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Isaac says.  “That’s what the news reports said.  How’d you survive the blast at the jail?”

“We escaped before the explosion.  They assumed we were there, and we didn’t correct them.”

“Was it really just a gas leak?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell—”

“It doesn’t matter. Right now we need to find Stiles.”

“Can she really find him with spells or whatever? What is she?” Scott asks.  “A witch?”

Sam nods because a verbal response might give away the partial truth in the reply. “Don’t worry.  She won’t hurt the pack. She’s on our side. She’ll find him if she can.”

 

“You’re working with a witch? How’d you ever get Dean to—”

“Dean’s dead,” Sam snaps quickly, the mention of his brother’s name causing the pain to flare though words come out with a calm, detached tone that’s the result of weeks of playing the phrase over and over in his mind. 

Scott looks like he’s been sucker punched.

“Shit—I, uh—I’m  sorry, dude, I—” Scott stutters. 

“It’s fine.”

There’s several beats of awkward silence before the sheriff interrupts it to ask, “You’ve dealt with demons before.  What are the chances that my son is still all right?”

“Chris Argent said there was almost no point looking; he says Stiles is probably dead already,” Scott adds morosely.

“Argent told you that?”

"Yeah, when we called for his help, and that was his reply.”

“Derek let you call Argent?”    The young wolves are silent, and Sam deduces enough from the look on the teens’ face to realize, “Of course he wouldn’t. Which means Derek’s missing too?”

“They’re not dead,” Scott says firmly, “at least not both of them, or we’d be fighting for top rank.  It’s something, but it’s not much.  I don’t care what Argent says though, we’re not giving up on him.”

“He probably just didn’t want to get your hopes up,” Sam replies. 

“So there’s a chance he’s okay?” the sheriff persists.

“There’s a chance he’s still alive,” Sam replies because no one is ever ‘okay’ after being possessed, and if it’s had him two days already there’s a million things that could’ve happened by now.  “It all depends on the demon and what it wants him for. Any ideas?”

“None. The only thing out of the ordinary lately is the stuff with Lydia.  You think it’s connected?”

“Shouldn’t be, but there’s no way to know.  Where is she?”

“Safe with Jackson. She hasn’t had any more visions.  The demon hasn’t come at her or any of the rest of us.”

“It wouldn’t be able to possess

“Awesome,” Sam says with a sigh. 

He came here to find out what was going on with Lydia Martin, not to be thrown in the middle of a demon hunt.  Nevertheless, it’s a good training exercise, especially since he’d got some emotional attachment in the mix to give an extra boost to his powers whenever the showdown happens.  He wonders if Stiles is more or less likely to survive the exorcism if Sam performs it with his abilities, but in the end it’ll probably be the timing that calls it—and the strength of demon that’s possessing Stiles.  He’ll take care of this first and then he can get around to settling the Lydia conundrum.

“Got the supplies,” Ruby says as she comes back through the door.  “Let’s get started; this could take a while.”

           

 

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice the '?' now in the chapter total. Since I'm just going to update whenever I can, the breaks are a little different than they were in the original draft because I need more manageable chunks to edit so I'm not tying it to a number anymore. We'll just see where it goes and how it breaks down. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not archiving warnings, so just a reminder this is all about the demon torturing/mindfucking Derek and Stiles. Nothing too graphic, but you've been warned all the same.
> 
> also, friendly reminder that my life is currently all kinds of hectic and I can't promise when updates will come.
> 
> so yeah, here ya go if you want it. Enjoy...or cry...or whatever...and thanks for reading :)

“Nice of you to join us again, Stiles,” the demon says as Stiles comes back to the moment.  He lost track of time long ago; it’s become an excruciating, never-ending cycle of falling unconscious only to open his eyes to new horrors. 

 “Let. Him. Go.” Derek orders yet again, the demand he makes each time the demon informs him Stiles is cognizant.  It’s killing Stiles to hear it because Derek’s demand sounds just a little more hopeless every time.

“Oh, but, sweetie, we haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. All these teeny tiny little games are barely scratching the surface, and you’re not going to last much longer. It’s about time I finished up with you so we can move on to the next mongrel in your measly little pack.”

“No.”

“Oh, yes,” the demon taunts. “They’ll be so relieved to see Stiles, won’t they? They’ll never even think to fight until it’s much too late.  He’s the perfect disguise and the ultimate weapon.  Even if they do try to fight, the power of his spark at my disposal is more than enough to keep them all in check.  I’ve got the perfect base. The Argents may be alive, but just enough to keep the meat suits from rotting where they lie. They’re my puppets.  It’ll be child’s play to keep up appearances.  The pack will keep looking for the ones I take, but they’ll never think to look here.  No one is coming to help you, and no one will come to help them. No one will stop me;  Your pack is _mine_ Derek.  There’s _nothing_ you can do about that.”    

There’s an intense mix of fear and fury burning in Derek’s eyes, and Stiles wonders if it would be mirrored in his own gaze if he had any control.

“There is one person who could put an end to it,” the demon continues as though it’s an afterthought.  “Stiles could take back control, force himself to the surface. If he _really_ tried, he could save you—could’ve saved you from the very beginning if he actually cared about you as much as you think he does.”

Derek says nothing; the demon drives another arrow into Derek’s arm.  Stiles can feel the jolt as it connects with the bone.

_I’m trying. I swear to God, Derek, I haven’t stopped fighting since we woke up here. Don’t believe it. I’m fighting. I’m just not strong enough._

“But it seems like he doesn’t care quite as much as you think he does,” the demon says with a shrug as it grabs another arrow.  “Come on, Stiles,” it urges as the second arrow drives in, “you can try harder than that.”

 “It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek insists through gritted teeth. 

Stiles knows the small, reassuring nod Derek gives the demon is for him; he appreciates the attempt, but Stiles knows that once this is over it will all be different—if this ever actually ends in anything other than death.  Derek will never forgive him for failing to fight the demon and for putting the entire pack at risk like this.

“Oh, but it’s not okay, is it Stiles?” the demon asks.  “You see, Derek. It’s not okay because Stiles should have known a long time ago that something like this would happen.  His whole life he’s just been the weak, hyperactive little shit who _always_ manages to make everyone else’s life _so much harder_.  That’s what he’s so afraid you’ll realize. He knows it’s just a matter of time before everyone realizes how much simpler things could be without him.  Why do you think he’s always trying so hard to be helpful?

He knows never _really_ an asset. He’s a liability.  A stupid sidekick who just gets in the way and causes trouble.  Everything good he tries to do is either to fix something he fucked up in the first place or is just a half-baked plan that goes to hell one way or another. Even so, he just won’t quit. He won’t for _once_ in his life sit quiet and leave everyone the fuck alone. He just keeps talking and meddling and eventually fucking everything up.   

It’s his fault Scott was bitten. His fault Peter nearly killed Lydia.  His fault his father’s constantly in danger of losing his job—even his life—now he’s been sucked into his son’s supernatural shit storm.  He’s going to be the death of his dad, and he knows it.  It’s the logical conclusion; after all, he’s the one who killed his mother—”

“You’re lying,” Derek growls, and the demon laughs gleefully.

“Oh, but I’m not, not at all,” it replies.  “That’s the beauty of it, Derek.  I don’t have to lie. I just have to point out the truth. Stiles has managed to fuck up the life of every friend or family member he’s ever known.  His mother’s just the crowning glory of a whole repertoire of disasters.  You’ll make a nice runner-up though—or maybe third place by the time I’m done with his father.”

“Stiles, it’s not your—” the final word is cut off by the blade the demon slices through Derek’s gut, reopening newly-healed wounds.  “Fault,” Derek completes, determinedly, blood sputtering through his lips as he forces out the word.

_It is though, it really is. All of it’s my fault._

“Come on, Derek, even his father knows Stiles is the one to blame.  It’s all him.  All Stiles.   Every day his father sat in that hospital watching her slowly dying wondering how the hell he was supposed to raise this stupid kid on his own, the hyperactive little bastard who just _kept_ ruining his life.  Stiles killed his own mother, and his father was stuck knowing the little shit who killed his wife was the only family he had left in the world.  I’d’ve gone home and reached for the whiskey too, wouldn’t you, Derek?  And instead of trying to atone for it, instead of trying to just be good and stay quiet, Stiles manages to keep piling on problems for his father to trudge through.  What the hell kind of selfish, smartass little son of a bitch does that to his own father?”

Every word the demon speaks through Stiles lips he’s already thought a thousand times.  Of course he’s usually pretty good at shoving it to the back of his mind—as long as there’s no wolfsbane-laced punch involved—but in this moment there’s no ignoring it.  There’s no ignoring that Derek knows now.  At least Derek’s not reacting with as much disgust as Stiles expected, but Derek’s also a little preoccupied by the various implements protruding from his bleeding and bruised body—also Stiles fault—to give a real reaction. 

Stiles wants the blackness to close in again. He doesn’t want all this swirling in his mind; it’s just making it harder to convince himself there’s any point to fighting to get control back.  But the darkness doesn’t come. He’s stuck here putting up a pathetically ineffective fight against this demon as he continues to watch Derek endure the torture Stiles isn’t strong enough to end. If this thing really does carry out its whole plan, if it works its way through the pack one by one, if Stiles is the weak link that gets them all slaughtered…

 _Stop,_ he finds himself begging.  _Please just stop. Please._

But he knows better than to hope it listens.

 

**************************************************

 

“Your dad loves,” Derek gasps out between blows, “he loves you.”

No matter what this demon claims, no matter what truth is behind the words, Stiles shouldn’t feel this way.  Derek’s not sure what happened to Mrs. Stilinski, but he knows there’s no way Stiles really killed his mother. Whatever happened to bring about her death, there’s no way the sheriff blames him for it.

“Like Laura would’ve loved you if she knew the truth?” the demon asks with a smirk.  “Don’t be an idiot, Derek. You knew exactly how much she would have _hated_ you if she ever found out.  She’d have hated you the same way the sheriff hates Stiles.  A low, burning fury that eats away at a person—because he can’t kill Stiles any more than Laura could have killed you.

That’s why you never told Laura the truth.  You never told anyone.  That’s an awful lot of guilt to walk around with, Derek, but I guess it was worth it to avoid the way she would’ve looked at you every day for the rest of your worthless life.  Too bad Peter never found out; no doubt he’d have been happy to rid the world of your worthless hide.  I almost wish I had the patience to wait and call him back to Beacon Hills.  Of course, he’d enjoy every minute of ripping you apart for what you did; it’s _so_ much more fun to hear Stiles wail while he watches his own hands tear you apart.”

He can’t quite tell if it’s a knife or an arrow it shoves into his shoulder to emphasize the point.

“But before we get to the next round of fun and I finally put you out of your guilt-ridden misery, Stiles is going to find out the truth about you; he’s going to hear it from your lips, not mine.”

 _Over my dead body,_ Derek thinks, fully aware of just how possible that scenario really is.

 “You’d die first though, wouldn’t you?” it supposes correctly.  “You’re _that_ determined to hide the truth.”  It shrugs.  “I guess we’ll just have to do this the hard way then.”

He doesn’t know what ‘the hard way’ is, but given that they’ve worked their way through baseball bats, knives, and cattle prods at this point, he figures he can still take it.  He’ll have to be a lot more broken than this before he’ll start talking about the fire—maybe that makes him even more damaged than he’s ever realized—but it’s the truth.  He braces for the pain, but it doesn’t come.  Instead, the demon drops the knife it’s been waving in his face and scrambles back from Derek, confused and panicking.

“Shit, Derek, shit, shit—what the—I’ve got control again what do I—” Stiles doesn’t get to finish the question before he slams backwards into the wall and crumples.  “I don’t have control,” he corrects. “It’s just—letting me talk? I don’t—I don’t understand.”

Derek understands. He understands perfectly.  This is no longer a question of hurting _Derek_ to make Derek talk; it’s going to be hurting _Stiles_ to make Derek talk—and letting him see Stiles’ full reaction to Derek’s worst secret.

_Son of a bitch._

He barely has time to process the thought before Stiles is lifted bodily by an invisible force and slammed backwards into the wall again with a pained grunt.

“Stop it!” Derek demands.

“Whatever it is, you don’t have to say it,” Stiles assures Derek.  “It’s okay. You don’t—” there’s a harsh series of snaps as the fingers of Stiles’ right hand break one by one in quick succession.  The terror on Stiles’ face and his yelps of pain pierce Derek deeper than any knife the demon’s tried so far. 

He tries to think of how he can even begin to confess this to Stiles when he never even managed to tell Laura. This is the kind of secret a man should be allowed to take to his grave.  Apparently, the demon doesn’t agree.

“I was sixteen,” he blurts.

“No, Derek, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

This time the crack comes from Stiles’ arm; it breaks so violently Derek can see the bone as it pierces the skin.  The shriek that escapes Stiles makes Derek’s stomach churn.

 “It was Kate, okay? It was Kate Argent.  She killed my family because I was too much of an idiot to see it coming.”

Through the pain, a look of confusion crosses Stiles’ face.

“Derek, you couldn’t have seen that coming nobody could have known—”

Stiles sails through the air, skids across the table of implements, and lands hard on the floor. Derek hears the pop as his shoulder dislocates. The demon reaches Stiles’ broken arm towards a knife, and Stiles looks desperately from Derek to the sharp blade his own hand is now bringing toward his face.  It breaks the skin on Stiles left cheek, and Derek can see no choice but to finally confess, “I was in love with her, okay?”

The words come out quiet and broken and pitiful—the pathetic words of a lovesick teenager.  

“I _thought_ I was anyway,” he amends.  The demon continues to drag the knife across Stiles cheek, and his hiss of pain keeps Derek talking, “It’s how she got close enough—how she figured out everything she needed to know to plan the fire.  It’s my fault they’re all dead.  I got my entire family killed because I was too much of an idiot to tell the difference between sex and love.”

He can’t entirely read the expression on Stiles’ face, but he can see enough—shock, disbelief, horror, disgust, pity, blame—it’s all written there. Derek can’t meet his eyes anymore. This moment never should’ve happened.  Stiles shouldn’t have to look at him every day knowing how much death he’s responsible for.  Stiles doesn’t deserve to cope with that—to have to push past that to try and hold pack loyalties—assuming they even survive this.

Stiles finally opens his mouth to reply, but his response turns into a triumphant cackle as the demon resurfaces. 

 

**************************************************************

 

The look on Derek’s face is worse than the pain, and given that Stiles is pretty sure that’s his ulna sticking through the skin of his arm, that’s saying something.  Even worse, he can tell by the demon’s glee buzzing in his body that this isn’t over yet. The demon picks up a knife in each hand and saunters back to Derek.  Stiles screams in pain despite himself, feeling his wounds with every motion though it doesn’t seem to slow the demon any.

“You think he’ll still love you?” the demon asks, chatting casually as it carves into Derek again.  “you think _anyone_ can love you after finding out what you did?” When Derek remains silent, it continues, “Of course not. We’ve talked about this already. That’s why you never told Laura.  She’d never have forgiven you, and you’d _really_ have been left alone.”

Shame shines in Derek’s eyes as he stares stubbornly at the floor.  Stiles screams obscenities at the demon within his mind.

_She was a sick psycho preying on a sixteen-year-old kid! It’s not your fault the Argents are fucked up sociopaths! Don’t listen to this!_

“Maybe if you’re lucky he won’t tell your pack—of course, if he did and they left you, it would serve you right; you don’t deserve a pack since you got your last one killed—but it’s not like they need you, do they Derek? They could get along fine without you, and you know it.  _No one_ needs you, Derek.  Especially not this feisty little meat suit I’m wearing.”

“Shut up.”

“You know it’s true. He’s got just enough werewolf and just enough spark in his blood to make him practically unstoppable.  You know just how much potential he has, don’t you? But you haven’t told him. You let him think he’ll work up to it slowly. Let him think he has to train with Deaton all because you’re afraid of what he can really do if he ever harnesses his full power.  He’ll have no need for you or your pathetic little pack once he understands how powerful he is. He’ll have no reason to stay.

You still can’t even figure out how you convinced him to be with you in the first place.  He’s young.  He’s got all kinds of options in front of him.  Sure he’s got a little baggage, you know all about that now, but it’s _nothing_ compared to what you’ve done Derek.  He can walk around and put on a brave face.  He can pass for normal—normal enough anyway—so that no one guesses all the guilt and pain that’s trapped inside him.  What the hell would make him stoop to chaining himself to an obviously damaged, broody, angry thing like you? You know the answer already, don’t you? You’ve known since the start, whether you’re willing admit it or not,” the demon says, driving the knife deep into Derek’s flesh as it leans in to whisper.  “He just felt sorry for you.”

_It’s not true, Derek. Come on, you know this is all bullshit. I’m the one who couldn’t figure out why you’d stick yourself with me. Not the other way around!_

Stiles hates himself for being so grateful that the demon’s turned it’s attentions to exploiting Derek’s self-doubt, but it makes it so much easier to fight back again.  He couldn’t seem to muster arguments against the demon for himself, but he can sure as hell muster an offense for Derek.  He’s hitting a second wind.  Maybe he’s got some fight left in him after all. He can keep trying; it’s better than sitting here trapped.  He’ll at least pretend he’s making a difference.

“He just pitied you,” the demon continues as it goes to back to pluck some of the knives that scattered to the floor when Stiles hit the table.  “You were around all the time anyway, and it’s not like you’re hard to look at, sourwolf.”

_You don’t get to call him that. Shut the fuck up._

“He thought you’d be a little less lonely and he’d have a little more sex,” the demon claims. “Not a bad deal—except it seems like Stiles drew the short straw on this one.  I mean, you did anything and _everything_ Kate Argent ever wanted to—mind-blowing, hot, dirty, crazy sex—but you barely give Stiles a taste?  All angst and no play makes Derek a _very_ sour wolf.”

S _top. Calling. Him. That._

Derek remains carefully still as it slides a hand behind his head, pulling his neck down.  His gaze still averted to avoid  eye-contact, but it doesn’t mask the shame and hurt practically radiating off him after this round of insults.

 _Don’t listen, Derek. Please don’t listen to it._   

“Maybe we can loosen you up a little. Nobody likes a prude, you know.”

Stiles spouts his most fervent round of rebellion yet against the demon as he feels it force his tongue into Derek’s unwilling mouth.  When the demon pulls back from the kiss, Stiles can feel its grin.  It knows as well as Stiles does that Derek can’t fight back—won’t fight back—because while the demon may be driving, the body still belongs to Stiles, and any harm is harm to him, not the demon.  Strategically, Derek should lash out now while the thing is in reach, using any kind of contact to inflict whatever damage he can, but Derek will take whatever’s coming because he won’t hurt Stiles.

The renewed realization of how terribly, horribly, _completely_ at this demon’s mercy he’s put Derek is enough to send Stiles into a new tizzy of panic.  The demon kisses Derek again, this time planting a knife in Derek’s back as it pulls him closer and trails Stiles’ hands down to slide Derek’s boxers down.  The gore was more than enough to fuel Stiles’ nightmares for the rest of time.  Now they’re starting to hit a whole new level of fucked up. 

“Come on, Derek, don’t be so tense,” the demon coaxes as it continues.   “Don’t you remember all that fun you had with Kate? She taught you so well, didn’t she? You know  you remember.”

Derek closes his eyes for just a second, clearly trying to regain his stoic composure and failing.  When his eyes open again, he glances up for just one second, and the look on his face shatters Stiles’ heart. Stiles can read the shame and hurt and defeat more than ever, and something else, something that seems almost apologetic—as if Derek’s the one with something to be sorry for—like this is a situation Derek’s brought upon himself, a punishment he thinks he _deserves_.

_Come on, Derek. Whatever happened, no one deserves this. Don’t give in. Don’t let it win. Fight back.  There’s got to be a little spark of defiance left in you. Come on!_

After two days of watching him bear unimaginable pain with remarkable resilience, Stiles realizes they’ve finally reached Derek’s breaking point, and something in Stiles snaps.  

He can almost feel the low rumble of rage building inside his head.  He somehow manages to focus in on the feeling, tuning out what the demon is saying and doing to Derek so that he’s not distracted from concentrating every ounce of consciousness he has on furthering this surge of power.  He does know how long the build takes, but eventually it reaches the point Stiles can _feel_ is finally enough, and it practically explodes out of him—a blast of power through the room that sends him flying back from Derek, a clatter as Derek’s chains rip from their anchors in the ceiling and floor.  Glass shatters and sparks fly; the whole house seems to be shaking with Stiles’ power and fury.  Derek’s crumpled to the floor across the room, and Stiles wants to run there, to check on him, but he feels like he’s coming apart at the seams. He can’t get a handle on the magic, can’t make it stop and isn’t sure he wants to because underneath it all he can feel the demon thrashing to get control again.

Derek rises to his feet and stumbles towards Stiles.

“NO!” Stiles commands. “Just run!” he insists, but Derek doesn’t move away.  “I can’t keep the demon out long!  Run! NOW! Please, Derek, just run!” 

Stiles can feel his strength ebbing away. The effort of a burst that powerful and the fatigue of enduring everything that’s happened the past few days will make it impossible for him to keep this up much longer.  The demon’s glee is buzzing in his head again. It’s coming back, and Derek still won’t run.

“Go, Derek, please,” Stiles begs as he slumps back against the wall. 

The demon seizes the moment as soon as Stiles’ magic has receded enough, and Stiles is on his feet again with a maniacal laugh that isn’t his own bubbling from his lips.  Derek takes a few steps back as the demon advances.

“Should’ve run while you had the chance,” the demon taunts.  “That was your one and only shot, Sourwolf.  Now you’re really mine.”

            

****************************************************************

 

Sam kicks in the door to the basement and they advance on the demon before it even knows what hit it.  Ruby’s got it pinned to the back wall in seconds, and Sam’s fear and fury conjure a confidence he usually doesn’t have.  Stiles chokes as the black smoke barrels out of his body in immediate response to Sam’s command.  The teen collapses on the floor once the demon’s finally gone.  Derek Hale looks almost rabid as he looks from Stiles still form back to Sam.

“What the hell did you do?” Derek demands. “If you killed him, I swear to God I will—” He manages only a few steps toward Sam before he’s swaying where he stands.  

“Thank us for saving your ungrateful ass?” Ruby asks, reaching a hand to steady Derek. “Because that’s what we’re doing in case you hadn’t noticed, Fido.”

Sam rushes to check Stiles for a pulse.  “He’s okay,” Sam assures Derek “He needs the ER, but he’ll be fine. It’s over.”  Sam looks from the broken teenager up to Derek.  “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Derek replies even though he’s stripped naked, covered in wounds that aren’t healing, and serving as a pin cushion for an impressive assortment of arrows and knives that haven’t been pulled out.  “Just get him out of here.”

Ruby grabs Derek’s arms to keep him upright as his knees buckle.

“Fine, huh?” she scoffs.

“Fuck off,” Derek replies, shirking off her touch. 

“Here,” she says pulling over a chair.  “Sit.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, bracing himself against the wall instead.  “Just help me get some of the knives out.” He glares over at Sam. “What the hell are you waiting for? Get him the fuck out of here. He needs a hospital.”

Sam stands, lifting Stiles in his arms, mindful of the visible wounds and moves toward the stairs.  Derek’s growling lowly as Ruby begins to pull out the implements.

“If you try to bite me, these are going back in,” she informs him.  “Got it?”

“Take the damn things out; I’m not going to shift.”

“Derek!” a voice shrieks from upstairs. “Stiles!”

Just as Sam puts his foot on the first step, Jackson appears in the doorway at the top of the stairs with a frazzled Lydia right behind him. She’s got an arrow at the ready, and Jackson’s fully shifted. 

“What the fuck is going on?!”

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some Sam POV...and some more...and some more.
> 
> Also, a note for those of you who may be a little rusty on your Supernatural:   
> All Hell Breaks Loose Part I is the part one of the two-part season finale for season 2; It takes place in Cold Oak, South Dakota. If you read this and are still a little foggy on what I was referencing, go check out that episode for reference (or ask me, and I'll clarify :) )
> 
> Thanks for reading!

 

“So how is he?” Scott asks as the sheriff finally returns from his discussion with the doctors.

“Physically everything seems to be fine. The wounds are stitched; the bones are set. He’d be ready to go home, except he’s still not regaining consciousness.   There’s no medical reason why he wouldn’t.  They’re keeping him in ICU while they take another look at the brain scans. Is Derek awake yet? Is there anything he could tell us that might—”

“Deaton gave him enough tranquilizers to knock out an elephant even if he hadn’t been injured.  It was the only way to treat him without him going berserk. It’ll probably be the morning before we can talk to him,” Scott replies.

“Is this normal after a possession?” the sheriff asks Sam.  “An after-effect or something like that?”

"It’s possible. It also may be some residual exhaustion from using his magic. I’m sure he was trying to fight it.”

“Two full days of constantly using his magic to one degree or another—maybe he’s just exhausted,” Scott agrees hopefully.  “He’ll be fine, right? He’s Stiles.”

“I know one thing, he was damn lucky you and Ruby got here when you did.” He places a hand on Sam’s shoulder, “I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am.”

“Just glad we could help.”

“You three should go on and help the others. There’s more important jobs to be done than sitting here useless. I can handle that part on my own. Check in with your mother, Scott. See if there’s anything she needs help with at the Argents’.”

“Lydia called while you were gone; they’re already awake—still groggy but mostly fine. Looks like we got pretty lucky across the board on this one.”

“I’m glad to hear that.  All the same, they can use you there or at Deaton’s more than I need you here. I’ll call if there’s any change.”

“You sure?”

“Positive, Scott. Go.”

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Okay, what is it? Why the sulk?” Ruby asks as they get into the impala.  “Apparently it’s too much to ask for you to just be happy with the fact you successfully exorcised a demon _and_ saved four people—if not the whole damn Hale Pack. So what’s bugging you?”

“Tell me you didn’t send the demon to Beacon Hills.”

“What? Why would you think that?” It’s not a denial, and that bothers him.

“The sheriff’s right; it was damn lucky we were headed this way already.”

“Yeah, so?”

“We don’t get that lucky Ruby.”

“Come on, Sam.”

“It was in Beacon Hills within hours of us starting this way.  It knew to go after the Argents and start a base there.  Ever since I saved you, you’ve been talking about a way to get me to a similar stress point so we could see if it would get another successful exorcism out of me.”

She shrugs unapologetically.

“You know as well as I do that if you’re actually going to try and kill Lilith, you’ve _got_ to step up your game.  If that means I make a few strategic moves to get a demon or two in your path, I’ll do it.”

“What the hell were you thinking, Ruby?!” he demands, slamming a hand into the steering wheel in frustration. “You can’t pull shit like this!”

“They didn’t die! They’ll be fine. I used to know this demon. I knew it was a low-grade demon.  I knew its style, and I knew we’d make it in time.  I planted the idea of taking it slow with a base camp to give us enough time to get here.  They’re people who already know about the supernatural, not the innocent bystanders you care so much about protecting.  The gain was worth more than the risk, and I’d do it again.”

He should hate himself for even _considering_ that this really was worth the risk, but he doesn’t.  It felt good to exorcise that demon and know that saving Ruby wasn’t a one-time fluke.  The rush of the power was a high he won’t soon forget, and it left him craving more.  He doesn’t know that he’d ever _ask_ Ruby to risk people for the sake of his training, but he can’t say he’s sorry she did it of her own volition.  There’s definite logic to her argument, and the side of him that’s desperate for vengeance agrees with it.  In the end, Stiles and Derek will be fine—hell, maybe it’s best that they learned their lesson on a lesser demon when Sam could come to help than with some big-bad on a chance encounter with Sam off the radar. 

“Don’t do it again,” he tells Ruby firmly. It eases some of the guilt still chastising him for letting this slide.  “I don’t need the push anymore. I’ll be fine.”

“Prove it.”

“First we tie up loose ends here. Then you can find us a demon, okay?”

"That’s the spirit, Sammy,” Ruby says with a triumphant smile. “Come on; let’s figure out what the hell’s going on with this Martin girl.”

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Sam’s still pouring through lore on seers and psychics when three sharp raps at the motel room door startle him to attention.  He wants to be sure there’s no simpler explanation for what’s going on with Lydia, but the chance of that happening pretty much went to hell the moment he connected that the Lily he met in Cold Oak a year ago was Lily Martin, Lydia’s half-sister.  

“Open up, Sam” Lydia demands from outside. “I’ve been patient enough.”

“I take it things are settled at the Argents’ then?” he asks as he opens the door.     

“Yes.  The Argents are fine. Derek and Stiles are being treated.  Now I want some answers before I lose my fucking mind,” Lydia informs him as she pushes past him into the room and takes a seat in one of the vacant chairs at the table.  “So talk.  I want to know what the hell you did back there and how you learned to do it.”

“First I want to know why Stiles called with questions about my nightmares.” When she doesn’t answer immediately he guesses, “You had one, didn’t you?”

She nods, “Earlier this week.”

“Did you have another one today? Is that how you knew to come to the Argents’?”

“It wasn’t a nightmare. I was awake, but I saw—” she closes her eyes as she hesitates, and Sam knows all too well the conflict between the need to share the horror and the need to never think of it again.  “I saw it kill Derek.”

“I’m sorry. That must’ve been awful.” The words seem empty, but there’s not much else to say; at least the vision wasn’t realized, but the images are going to stay in Lydia’s mind all the same.  He can’t count the times his visions have helped him save Dean, but every death vision is still seared in his mind almost as though it really happened.

“You see these all the time?” she asks.

He nods, “But not as much anymore.”

_The only person I really needed to keep track of is already gone._

“How’d you stop it?”

“I’m not absolutely sure we’re dealing with the same problem here,” Sam admits.  “You might not be like me; you could just be psychic.”

“I could be,” she agrees, “but it’s pretty clear you don’t _really_ believe that.  You wouldn’t have dropped everything and driven here instead of calling if you thought I was just a little psychic.  So tell me the truth.  What do you think I am, Sam? What are you?”

He sighs heavily.  _Where do I even start?_

 _"_ I have demon blood in me.”

"What?!”

"Demon blood,” he repeats patiently, hoping if he keeps his own composure calm and businesslike, Lydia will follow suit. “Since I was six months old.”

“So a demon did this to you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it had plans for me.  He made dozens of others like me so that one of us could lead an army of demons he planned to unleash.”

“So there’s dozens?”

"Not anymore. There’s just me now.”

 “And me?”

 "I don’t know.  You’re not the right age to fit with the rest of us.”

“So I’m advanced for my age. It’s not exactly the first time I’ve had that problem.  Maybe I just—”

“No, not with this.  This was a plan that was decades in the making; there are no anomalies.  I don’t care how smart you are.”

“So if I’m not an anomaly to your little club of demon army generals, what the hell am I?”

“I think you’re an unforeseen complication,” Sam replies.  “Demon blood wasn’t introduced directly into your system. You got the powers secondhand; you’re not actually one of Azazel’s children.”

“So where did the powers come from?”

“Lily.”

“Lily?” she repeats, clearly confused. He waits the moment or two it takes for her to start connecting dots.  She begins to shake her head in denial as she asks, “You’re trying to tell me that Lily is one of this demon—what did you call it? Azazel?—one of Azazel’s children? That’s bullshit. No way. Lily didn’t have powers. She’s weird, sure, but that’s just—She’s a typical rebellious daughter—who can blame her once our dad sent her off to boarding school when she didn’t get along with my mom—so yeah, family issues—blew up the chem lab once to get back at a teacher—horrible taste in fashion—It doesn’t mean she has fucking demon blood. She isn’t—”

“She was,” Sam insists. “I met her. I know.”

"When?”

“About a year ago,” Sam replies.  “Probably the same week she went missing.”

“She’s not missing.”

“No?”

“No. She’s not missing.  She just left.  She didn’t tell dad because he’s an asshole.  She only told me out of whatever pathetic excuse for sibling solidarity we have.  She was moving to San Diego with her girlfriend right after college. They were going to get married if everything worked out—start over away from dad and all the bullshit issues he heaped on her ever since her mom died.  She told me she was never coming back, and I couldn’t blame her.”

Sam doesn’t meet Lydia’s gaze.  He’s trying not to see a young blonde woman hanging from a windmill in South Dakota. He’s trying not to remember her heartbroken confession of  _I accidentally touched my girlfriend_ and pair it with Lydia’s _they were going to get married._ He’s trying to figure out how to tell Lydia the truth of what really happened to Lily.

“What  issues since her mom died?” Sam pries though he’s got a good guess at the answer.

“She always said Dad had the idea in his head that she’s the reason her mom died; she said that was why he didn’t love her—but that’s just Dad; he’s not so great at loving _anybody._ Besides, to think he blamed her? I mean, she was six months old how could she possibly have—”  Lydia stops mid-sentence as the words process. “Six months old,” she repeats. “She was six months old when her mom died.  You said you were six months old when the demon—does that—did her mom die because of—no, no there’s still no way.”

“Azazel came into our nurseries exactly six months after we were born,” Sam begins quietly.  “There were plenty of children whose parents survived, but, if he was interrupted—”

“He killed them,” Lydia guesses, and Sam nods.

“Her mother must’ve come in to check on her.  I should’ve caught the connection a long time ago when I was looking for others like me, but the fire didn’t spread in Lily’s nursery as well as it did in the others. They recovered her mother’s body, saw the contusions to her abdomen, and ruled it homicide.  It didn’t come up in any of my searches.” 

Lydia nods, absorbing the information.

“She really had demon blood in her?”

“Yes.”

“But you said you’re the only one left?”

“Yes.” 

“So she’s—she’s—you’re telling me she’s not in San Diego; she’s—”

“She’s dead,” Sam confirms quietly. “Lydia, I’m so sorry.  I thought you’d have some idea—”

“Some idea that my half-sister had demon blood that was going to get her killed?! Yeah, sure, Sam. I totally saw that one coming. It was right up there with predicting my best friend was a hunter and my boyfriend was a mind-controlled mythical murderer!  Clearly I’m a fucking _fabulous_ psychic!” she lashes out.  “How the hell could I have _possibly_ had any idea about this?!”

“I thought she went missing when she came to Cold Oak. I didn’t know she left before that. I figured if she’d been missing a year then you’d be prepared to hear she was gone.”

“Where the hell is Cold Oak?”

“South Dakota,” Sam replies. “The demon brought a bunch of us there to size us up.  There was fighting between the others, and one of them attacked Lily.”

There’s so much more to the story, but Lydia doesn’t need to know it all. Honestly, Sam doesn’t want to tell it all either. 

“Who?”

“Her name was Ava.”

“Another one of the demon blood kids?”

“Yes.”

“So she’s dead now too?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Sam remains quiet a moment or two longer, trying to give Lydia a moment to collect herself before he continues, but she’s the one who starts the conversation again.

“So Lily had demon blood, and she transferred it to me,” Lydia says. “That’s what you meant by getting it secondhand.”

“Yes.  I saw in the hospital records that you had surgery when you were thirteen to have cysts removed.  You’ve got AB- blood, and that’s pretty rare, so I’m guessing someone in your family donated blood for you beforehand.  Given your powers, I’m guessing it was Lily.”

Lydia nods.  “It  got scheduled around Christmastime.  She joked that it meant she could take my real present back.”  She combats the new round of tears welling up in her eyes by scoffing, “Of course I took it back myself anyway. She bought me the most _hideous_ boots you’ve ever seen in your life.”

“I think that’s how you got the powers.”

“That’s really enough to turn me into—whatever we are?”

“I was turned with just a few drops of demon blood.  Several pints to you could have enough for some potency even though it didn’t come directly from the demon.”

“I guess that’s not so different from what happened with Stiles—just enough to give me some characteristics even though I’m not full strength.”

“It’s the only explanation I can think of for what’s happening with you,” Sam says.

“Makes you wonder how many half-breed demon blood kids are running around out there.  I can’t be the only one.”

“Who knows?  If they’re out there, most of them probably ignore and suppress their abilities; maybe a few think they’re just psychic.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’d jump to secondhand candidate to lead a demon army as the explanation for my visions either,” Lydia agrees.  “It sounds pretty crazy, and I’m pretty used to crazy these days.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Sam agrees, “but you gotta trust me on all this.”

“You’re the only one with any kind of answers.  It’s not like I’ve got a whole lot of choice in the matter,” she replies.  “But we’re more than just psychic, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

She looks at Sam expectantly, and he debates exactly how much to tell her, the same argument that’s been running through his mind all night. There are plenty of things she can embrace without the supplemental blood.  Does she really need to know about the whole new level that drinking demon blood opens up? Can he make her understand the price that comes with that decision?  She’s seventeen years old; it’s a hell of a lot of weight to put on her shoulders.

But it took him a long time to get over how much he _hated_ Dad for never letting him know he was different.  He stayed furious with Dean for a while after he found out his brother kept the secret as long as he did. Sam’s wondered a million times if it would have made a difference somehow if he’d known more. It’s Lydia’s life; they’re Lydia’s powers. More than anything Sam believes she should be able to choose what direction she wants to take and how she wants to use her abilities—or not.  He wishes he’d been given the same choices and the freedom to act in either direction. 

“Here’s the thing,” Sam says finally. “I’m going to tell you everything I know, and then you get to decide how much or how little you tell your pack.  We’re leaving in the morning, so you can honestly pretend this conversation never happened if you want to.”

“Or I can work on my powers even after you’re gone and help my pack,” she counters determinedly.

“Exactly,” Sam agrees, and he can’t help smiling a little at her tenacity. “The point it, it’s _your_ choice to make.  _You_ decide what to do with it.”

“Okay.”

“Before we killed Azazel, anything to do with my powers was tied into him; it limited things unless you started to give your mind over to his control.  Now that he’s dead, the powers remain, but they’re not tied into anything but you.  That’s why they present as the nightmares to protect people you care about. Emotions like that make your powers stronger, but they can also make them harder to control. Be careful of that.” Lydia nods, and Sam continues, “You get to choose how present you allow your powers to be.  I chose to keep mine at bay for a long time.  I never told anyone they still existed after Azazel died.  The only thing I kept partially tapped into was the death visions.”

“To protect your brother?”

“And I’m exhibit number one that your visions aren’t always enough to keep people alive. Don’t _ever_ assume that they make the people you care about invincible. There’s still plenty of scenarios you can’t stop no matter how far in advance you start to see them.  It’s not a full-proof defense.”

“Got it.”

“There are other basic abilities; the strength of each varies from person to person. I don’t know why.  You could have any level of skill with telekinesis, mind control, and enhanced physical strength.  Lily had a power that stopped the heart of anyone or anything she touched.  Others had the ability to conjure electric shocks.”

“How am I supposed to know which ones I have?”

“You just have to work at embracing it; tap into the power. You’ll start to get a sense of them eventually.”

“Clap your hands if you believe,” she mutters dubiously.

“This isn’t a game,” Sam says tersely.  “If you start exploring your abilities, it’s serious work, understand? It’s not just something fun to fuck around with when you’re bored.  Once you start letting them present, it makes it harder to suppress them if you change your mind. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

She has no idea the power that she could amass if she works at this.  Sam has no idea how dark that path might get.  He wishes that her powers had presented months ago when there was a little time he could have spent here teaching her—then again, he doesn’t know how he ever could’ve explained it to Dean—but nowadays all he can really focus on at the end of the day is killing Lilith. He needed to know if Lydia was a potential ally or threat.  Now he knows there’s some potential in her to help him, but taking time to try and teach her would slow him down.  There’s no guarantee her powers can even go far enough to matter.  In the end, it’s not her fight anyway.  It’s not something Lydia should be dragged into or something Sam expects to come back from.  So he doesn’t offer to let her come with him a while and teach her on the move, not that he really thinks she’d accept that offer anyway.   

She’ll just have to figure it out on her own—or with the help of her pack.  It’s not lost on Sam that this isn’t unlike how he felt leaving Stiles last time they put Beacon Hills in the rearview.  It seems Stiles has been developing his magic and researching on his own and with Deaton; he hopes Lydia can do the same.  The two teens might be good for each other. Between the two of them, they could add a serious level of defense to the Hale Pack.  He hopes no other hunters figure out the power that’s amassing in Beacon Hills. 

“What about the exorcism?” Lydia wants to know. “You got rid of that demon somehow.  What did you do?”

“That’s a whole new level of commitment.  Exploring the basic powers may make it a little harder to pull back, but the things you have to do to tap into the power of exorcisms isn’t something you can ever come back from.”

“What do you mean?”

“To get that kind of mojo, the powers already in your blood aren’t enough.  You have to supplement it.”

“With what?”

“More demon blood, and once you’ve tried it. Just the ambient levels already in your blood will never be enough for you again.  _Ever._ Understand?”

“You mean—are you saying you dose yourself up on demon blood like some weirdo form of steroids?”

“That’s not a bad analogy,” Sam confirms, trying to ignore the judgmental reaction; he expected nothing less really.

“And then the ambient levels aren’t enough? So you get hooked?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re hooked on _demon blood_? That is—that’s—that _can’t_ be okay, Sam.”

“It’s a means to an end,” Sam replies simply.  “It’s a price I’m willing to pay to get the amount of power I need to take care of the unfinished business I’ve got.”

“What the hell kind of unfinished business means you need to—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam interrupts.  “The point is, that’s the trade-off for having the juice it takes to start exorcising demons with your powers.  Personally, I think you should give the usual exorcisms a go and fully explore the powers you have with your ambient blood concentration before you even _think_ about going down that road, but it’s really none of my business. I’m just telling you what I know. What you do with it is your choice.”

Sam’s determined to give her advice as objectively as possible, but he can’t help thinking. _It’s not worth it for you.  You don’t need it the way I do. You have other options, Lydia. Your powers should be enough when you combine them with the strengths of your pack.  Don’t go down that road._

“Right,” Lydia replies nodding, clearly still struggling to process everything and take the conversation in stride.  “Okay.”

“So that’s all I can tell you,” Sam says.  “There are tons of variables. I don’t have all the answers or the time to teach you. There’s no one else to teach you, but you’re smart.  You’ll be fine—at least you have a pack to back you up if you decide to work on it and bring them in on the info.”

“Probably better backup than you had surrounded by hunters,” Lydia supposes.  “You said nobody knows you still have the powers?”

“Just Ruby,” Sam confirms, “and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Of course.”

“And, for the record, it would probably be a very bad idea to tell Chris Argent exactly what you are.  Not everyone sees us as still being human; I don’t know what Chris would do, but, more importantly, I don’t know what others hunters he may be in contact with might do.  He’d keep some kind of record of you, and you don’t want that. I’ve been hunted before; it’s a very real possibility for you now regardless of what you reveal to the Argents.  You should be careful—but given that you’re in a pack, I guess you’re used to behaving like you could be a target.  You’re already guarding against hunters.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Her mind is somewhere else now; her eyes glaze as she starts to file away what he’s told her.  It’ll be a while before it sinks in enough for her to really begin planning her response to all of this.  Honestly he can’t believe the barrage of information he’s thrown at her in the past twenty minutes hasn’t sent her screaming to the nuthouse. Then again, she’s not your typical seventeen-year-old girl.  Lydia stares quietly at the wall for a few moments more before she comes back to the moment.

“So you’re gone in the morning?”

“Unfinished business,” he reminds her.

“Can I—could I contact you if this stuff gets _too_ insane.”

“I won’t promise to answer,” Sam replies honestly, “but I’ll give you a number.”

He writes it out on the hotel notepad and hands it to her.  She stares at it a moment before folding in and tucking it into her pocket.  He can tell she has a million questions flying through her mind, but she doesn’t even remotely know which ones to ask first.  In the end, she must decide she’s had enough information overload for one evening.

“I should probably get back to the Argents’.”

“Probably.”

She stands and walks toward the door.

“I appreciate that you—uh—I’m glad you—uh—gave it to me straight, I guess. It’s better I think—to know the truth. Otherwise…” her sentence trails off, and Sam knows all too well the look of someone being pulled into a memory they’d rather forget.  Sam isn’t sure what happened with Lydia in the months following Peter Hale’s attack, but he knows she was somehow roped into being a part of his resurrection—not so different from being an unwilling, uninformed pawn in Azazel’s games. It makes Sam even more certain he did the right thing by telling her what he knows.

“You’re not a kid anymore,” Sam says simply.  “None of you are.  It comes with the life.  You should have all the facts.  There’s enough going on that you can’t help or stop; you should be able to control whatever parts of your life you can.”

“Thank you, Sam,” she says earnestly.  “Seriously—for everything. For Stiles and Derek. And the truth about Lily. And about what I am. Just—thanks.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” she turns as she walks away.  “I hope you finish—whatever you’re trying to finish.  I hope it’s worth the price.”

“I will,” he assures her, “and it is worth it.”

“Bye, Sam.”

He closes the door as she gets in her car and leans his forehead against it for just a minute.

_It is worth it.  I’ll kill Lilith, and it’ll all be worth it.  It has to be._

                      

 

                       

 

.  


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to add to the angst, every time Stiles is saying some version of "I can't" here's a visual to go with it: http://25.media.tumblr.com/048bd573e5137f24fd420076fda9f67b/tumblr_mjq2toYT8d1qhyw6go6_500.gif

“Derek! It’s just me! Wake up!”

It’s Isaac’s voice that cuts through the nightmare, finally rousing him.  He opens his eyes to realize he’s in beta form, pinning Isaac to the bedroom floor.  He loosens his grip and immediately gets to his feet.

“Shit, Isaac,” he mutters as he backs away and shifts to human.

“No big deal,” Isaac replies with forced nonchalance.

_Yes, it is; this is the second time it’s happened._

“I should have better control than this.”

It’s been three days since they were rescued, but the nightmares are still there every time he closes his eyes.  He doesn’t expect them to go away—he still dreams about the fire for Chrissake—but he expects to handle them better than this. 

“Camden had nightmares all the time when he came back from his first tour,” Isaac says.  “It happens, dude. PTSD is a bitch.”

Derek doesn’t respond to the comment or use the excuse.  “You should get back to sleep,” he advises instead as he moves past Isaac to head toward the kitchen.

“If you’re making coffee, I want some,” Isaac calls after him.

“It’s four in the morning. Go back to bed.”

“Come on, there’s no point in going back to sleep now. That damn mockingbird outside my window is going to start up at five o’clock anyway.”

“You’re a werewolf that can’t take out a bird?” Derek scoffs.  “Seriously?”

“Shut up,” Isaac replies.  “I don’t want to kill it just because it’s annoying as hell. We don’t kill Jackson, do we?”

Derek rolls his eyes.  “Jackson’s your packmate,” he reminds Isaac dutifully.

“Joking,” Isaac replies.  “Mostly,” he adds more quietly.

This moment should be great. It should affirm everything Derek’s worked for that his beta would wake him from a nightmare, stay up with him, and crack jokes to lighten the mood.  It should make him feel like a good alpha to have Isaac’s carefully quiet attention these past few days, checking to make sure Derek’s okay without coddling him like a baby.  Having all the others stop by to check in should’ve furthered the feeling.

But all he can do is wonder how much longer this can possibly last.

Because soon enough— _please make it soon_ —Stiles is going to wake up, and now he knows exactly why Derek doesn’t deserve any of this.  Derek has no right to ask him not to tell the others the truth.  Even if Stiles doesn’t, there’s no way Derek can expect Stiles to stick around harboring that kind of secret.  The others all think Stiles’ waking up will make the pack whole again, but Derek knows that one way or another it’s just going to rip it apart.

 

 *****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles is up and practically out the door of his hospital room before his dad cuts him off.  He’s fighting against his dad for another moment or two before it finally registers that he’s awake and not in the basement anymore. 

“You’re okay, Stiles; you’re safe now.”

Stiles wants to believe him. He really does, but the last thing he _thinks_ he remembers is a dead man storming into the Argent basement and making him puke a demon. Needless to say it doesn’t inspire a lot of faith in his perception of reality at the moment, and this demon is damn strategic.  Stiles won’t be trusting anyone just yet. 

“I need to be sure.”

“You’re suspicious,” his dad says. “Okay. That’s smart. I can understand that.  Be disappointed if you weren’t, kiddo.” 

His dad still looks a little hurt though; Stiles’d feel guilty if he weren’t so fucking terrified.

“The bottle on the table there is mountain ash,” his dad tells him.  “You outdid yourself with your magic before. If you need to spread it by hand—”

But the moment his dad mentions it, Stiles can sense where it is and begins to spread the ash.  He means to make a simple line on the floor between the two of them, but he spreads and replicates the ash immediately to almost every unoccupied inch of floor, blacking out the dull white tile. 

“Ooookay then,” his dad says, taking a few steps towards Stiles over the ash.  “Sure enough now?”

Exhaustion sweeps over him in the absence of any immediate danger. He nearly collapses, but his father’s there before he falls, catching him in a hug that’s still carefully conscious of Stiles’ injured shoulder and arm.  He lets his head rest on his dad’s shoulder.

“Derek?” he asks, terrified of the answer.

“Fine.  Completely healed.”

“Allison and Chris?”

“Also fine. Everyone’s okay now. Everything’s okay.”

_You don’t know the half of it. Everything is so fucking far from okay, Dad._

“It was a demon,” Stiles says, voice muffled into his father’s shoulder. “I don’t know how we got out of there, Dad. I tried to use my magic, but I wasn’t strong enough and Derek wouldn’t _go_ and it was going to get the whole pack dad and you and _everybody_ and I didn’t know how to stop it!”

“It’s okay now,” his dad soothes.  “The demon’s gone.  You’re safe.”

“For how long?” Stiles replies  as he pulls back from the hug and moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “Dad, it could use me like a weapon. It couldn’t possess the wolves, but it could get me. It could use my spark. It could have—”

“But it _didn’t_.  Sam got there in time. It’s all right.”

“Sam? That wasn’t some weird hallucination?”

“No.  He’s still alive.  He came because of your call about his visions.”

_Oh yeah, there’s still a whole other tirade of questions we’ll have to get to later._

“That’s not the point,” Stiles insists, coming back to the matter at hand.  “If Sam hadn’t come, that thing would have used my body as a disguise and my spark as an arsenal to take down everybody I cared about, and I couldn’t stop it.”

“You did stop it.  Derek said that was the burst of magic that left you so exhausted.”

“It wasn’t _enough._ ”

"Stiles, you just woke up after two days of torture and three days of near-coma.  Take a little time to process things before you start stressing your next move.  Sam left all the humans with anti-possession charms. It’s enough to put your mind at ease for a few days at least. You need to take care of yourself.”

“I need to take care of my pack,” he counters stubbornly.

“And how’re you going to do that? I know that look. You’ve got a plan in your head already. What’re you thinking?”

“We’ve focused too much on offense.  I need to learn the defense.  I’m going to learn everything I possibly can.”

“I’m sure Deaton will be happy to—”

“No, not Deaton.  Deaton should’ve taught me things like this to begin with or told me to pay more attention to them in my research,” Stiles says, trying to keep bitterness out of his voice, but all he can think is that Deaton should have warned him to pay more attention to threats beyond hunters; he should've warned Stiles that his spark could be used against them like this.  “Deaton’s not—I know he helps us get back on our feet, but he doesn’t like to get more involved than he has to. He wants to stay on the sidelines as much as he can—which is fine—but I want someone who lives and breathes this stuff.   I want someone who researches everything, not just werewolves.  I want someone who’ll really reach me outright and not try to watch me learn my own lessons.”

“Well, Sam’s not going to help you with this. He’s got his own issues to work on apparently. He was barely in town twenty-four hours.”

“I have another idea.”

“What?”

“I think I’ll take a road trip to South Dakota,” Stiles says hesitantly, not bothering to meet his father’s gaze because he can already guess the reaction.

“Singer? You’re going to traipse halfway across the country to look for help from a hunter you’ve never even met—after the things you’ve been through the past few days? Absolutely not, Stiles!”

“Either you help me, or I’ll just figure out a way to get there on my own,” he informs his dad determinedly.

He knows trusting Singer isn’t the safest move, but he called the man about the visions and he sent help, not hunters; that’s something.  Sam says he’s the person to call for research, and that’s what Stiles needs right now. He’s also conveniently 1700 miles from Beacon Hills which means the chances of having to face anyone from the pack—especially Derek—are pretty slim, only adding to the appeal of this idea.

“No. You’ve got plenty to deal with here without—”

“I can’t,” Stiles interrupts.

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t deal with my pack until I can go in _knowing_ I won’t put us in a position like that ever again.” He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes and blinks them back, “I just can’t, Dad. I need—time. I need—I just need to feel—I can’t feel that helpless ever again. I just can’t.”

He can see the battle in his father’s eyes. He can see him trying weigh the dangers of this idea with what Stiles is saying he needs.  For Stiles there’s no doubt that this is worth the risk because he’s got to have something in the way of atonement before he tries to face Derek again, and this is the best plan he’s got. He doesn’t know how to convey all that exactly, but judging by the look on his dad’s face, Stiles desperation is reading through just fine. 

“You’ve been through hell,” his dad says finally, “and  if this—if this is what you really think you need, then I’ll help you because you’re damn sure not going on your own.”

Stiles smiles in relief even though it pulls a bit at his stitches.  He’s got a plan, and he’s got his dad in his corner.   It’s a step in the right direction.  Maybe he can do some damage control and keep this demon from successfully ruining his life even if it didn’t manage to kill him.  It’s going to be a long road back; first stop, Sioux Falls.

 

***********************************************************

 _Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up,_ Sam chants mentally as the phone rings in his ear.

“Sam?”

“I need a favor, Bobby.”

“Anything, kid, you know that.  What’s—”

“The wielder from the Hale Pack is headed your way, and I need you to teach him to protect their pack from demons.”

“What’re you—”

“Look, the kid got possessed, and it shook him up.  He needs somebody to teach him, and I can’t right now.  Please, Bobby, it shouldn’t take long. Just give him the basics. As a favor to me. He’s a good kid.”

_And I owe him big since I fucking used him as bait to get a go at a demon._

“Whatever you’re so busy with, you know I could help,” Bobby says.

“This is something I gotta do on my own,” Sam insists.  “Take care of yourself, Bobby.”

“Sam, hold on a min—”

Sam hangs up the phone before Bobby can say anything else.   He sits holding it a few minutes more, fighting the urge to call back.  He shouldn’t have called in the first place. He should’ve left the door firmly shut and avoided the distraction.  He shouldn’t have listened to his damn voicemail the minute Stiles left it just to make sure the kid sounded okay.

Once he’d heard Stiles’ voice on the other end of the line, Sam knew he’d be making the call.  It had been easy to see Ruby’s logic when he was sitting in the car thinking objectively about how—medically at least—everyone involved would be fine.  It had been easy in that moment to convince himself it was all worth it and he’d almost done them a favor by making them aware of the dangers a demon could pose to their pack.  But talking to Stiles and hearing just how freaked the teen sounded even as he tried to put bravado in his voice, was an instant reminder of the real cost of this whole sick training exercise—a reminder of the kinds of things Sam usually wanted to save, not sacrifice.

But thinking like that isn’t a luxury he can afford anymore, so he detaches from the train of thought and dials Stiles’ number.

“Sam?”

“I spoke with Bobby.  He’s expecting you.”

“Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate—”

“No problem,” Sam replies, cutting the line before the conversation can continue any further.

Emotional attachments are interferences he can’t afford right now.  He’s got work to do.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles has been staring at the text message on his screen for longer than he’d care to admit. He’s re-written the thing a dozen times at least, but it never sounds quite right. 

“Just tell him _something_ ,” his dad says finally.

“Huh?” Stiles asks, startling at the intrusion to his inner angsting.

“You’re trying to figure out what to tell Derek,” his dad replies.  “We both know the ‘Stiles just needs a good long drive to clear his head’ story we gave Scott isn’t going to last much longer.  Just send him _something_ so he doesn’t think you jumped ship.”

“What do I even say?”

“You’re not the only one who’s had a rough couple days.  Tell Derek you’re okay and you’ll be back soon. It’s not that complicated.”

_It’s insanely complicated. That’s the problem.  How do I just send him a simple text as the first actual contact we’ve had since—_

Unwanted memories flash in Stiles’ mind at the thought.  The map in his hands begins to flutter with wind Stiles is unintentionally conjuring.  He shakes his head to snap back to focus.  These little outbursts need to stop.

His dad’s right about Derek; he’s had enough to deal with the past couple days. He shouldn’t have to worry about Stiles too.

“I’m okay, and I’ll be back in town soon,” Stiles types in, quoting his father and adding, “I just have to take care of something so I can clear my head.” _And so I can promise you that nothing like this will ever happen to you again because of me._

He sends the text, turns his phone on silent, and shoves it in the glove box.   

 

***************************************************

 

“He has to take care of something so he can clear his head?” Danny asks.  “What does that even mean?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you to track him, would I?” Derek replies moodily.  “Can you track the phone or not?”

“Yeah, I can track it, just give me a minute.”

Derek sighs and begins to pace around the kitchen.

“Dude, if you’re gonna pace, go in the den.  It’s distracting.”

“Well then, hurry up, would you?”

“Are you kidding? It’s literally been two seconds, Derek!”

“Just—find him,” Derek demands, biting back the shift that’s threatening to come. 

He can feel his claws fighting to immerge in the stress of the moment and _hates_ how it feels for his control to be this shaky.  He stalks off into the den where Isaac and Scott are sprawled out on the couch watching a baseball game.

“Tell me again what the sheriff said,” Derek commands.

“We’ve been over this like a million times,” Scott replies with a huff.  “All he said was that Stiles needed to clear his head. He said a nice, long drive would do him good. They used to do this sort of thing every-so-often after his mom died—drive to the coast or take a hike or something.  It’s probably nothing to worry about. He just left the hospital this morning.”

“Ten hours ago,” Derek reminds him.

“Okay, so he needed a _really_ long drive.  Can you blame him? You two kind of had a fucked up couple of days, and we can’t all take it with a stoic face like you, Sourwolf.”

Derek’s fangs extend as he growls, “Don’t call me that.  _Ever.”_

He hadn’t meant for the order to come in the alpha voice, but it had.  Scott’s eyes are wide with surprise and maybe a little fear. 

“We call you that all the—”

“We won’t,” Isaac assures the alpha with an elbow to Scott’s ribs.

Derek retreats out to the porch to wait for Danny to track Stiles’ location.  He breathes deeply trying to regain his composure.  Isaac and Scott’s muffled whispers still reach him though.

“We call him sourwolf all the time,” Scott says. “I don’t get it.”

“Dude, reactions like that—that’s not just Derek being generally pissed, okay? Two days with that thing—him and Stiles both—they’re not going to talk about it, so you’re just going to have to pick up on triggers if you want to help them.  There’s a difference between Derek just being an ass and Derek trying to cope and that right then? That was Derek trying not to take a swing at you on impulse alone. Stow the general rebellion for a week or two because you know neither of them are going to admit what sets off the flashbacks, but they’re gonna have them anyway.  Just—think about the situation.”

He doesn’t hear Scott’s reply because he’s busy replaying Isaac’s words and thinking they’re pretty damn perceptive really.   _Camden had nightmares all the time when he came back from his first tour_ Isaac had told him. _It happens, dude. PTSD is a bitch._ He wonders what Camden’s triggers were and tries not to think of how most of his own will likely revolve around the one person he cares about most in the world.  He knows with every fiber of his being that it wasn’t really Stiles, but it’s still Stiles’ face that haunts his nightmares—either being used by the demon, frozen in the horror of finding out how Derek betrayed his family, or crying out in pain from wounds Derek couldn’t prevent.  Stiles will be the constant reminder of everything that happened, but he’s also the only hope Derek’s got of salvaging anything from this. 

He needs to know if Stiles will just run or if he’ll stick around. He needs to know what Stiles will tell the others about those two days with the demon. He needs to know just how broken Stiles got because Derek didn’t protect him, and if there’s any way he could ever even _begin_ to make it okay.   It’s the not knowing that’s the worst. 

“He just crossed the border into Wyoming,” Danny calls from the kitchen.  “He must’ve needed one hell of a drive.”

“I bet I know where he’s going,” Derek mutters.

“Singer?” Scott guesses.  “It’s not like we know anyone else out that way.”

“What’re you doing?” Isaac asks as Derek grabs his keys from the table by the door. 

“Winchester might trust Singer, but I don’t. Stiles isn’t human anymore by hunters’ standards. He’s going to get himself killed.”

“Derek—” Isaac begins to protest.

“Listen to me,” Derek commands as the alpha.  “Until I get back no one goes anywhere alone. Spend as much time as possible here. Do not let Argent know that I’m gone. If _anything_ goes wrong in _any_ way, call me immediately.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He’s out the door and to his car before he can think better of it.  Every alpha instinct is screaming at him not to leave his pack and the territory, but it’s quieted by an almost equal need to go and protect Stiles.  He lets the latter lead as he shifts the car into drive and peals out the driveway.         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for the record, I have very minimal real world experience with PTSD-type stuff; this is all my own interpretation. Sorry if I get anything a bit off.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s seven in the morning when Derek pulls into the parking lot of a Motel 6 off of I-90 just over the South Dakota line.  This is where Danny’s tracked the GPS in Stiles’ phone.  It’s easy enough to spot the sheriff’s truck in the parking lot, and it doesn’t take much effort to locate Stiles’ heartbeat in a room near the vehicle either.

He dials Danny’s number.

“Find him?” Danny asks groggily.

“Yeah,” Derek replies. “We’ll see if I can talk some sense into his moronic brain. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem.  Look, everything’s fine here; we’re good. So you two take your time figuring out—whatever the hell you can figure out.”

“Sure.”

“Later, man.”

Stiles and his father drove for fifteen hours to get to this point. Given the time it took Derek to catch up—going as fast as he could possibly push the camero—they’ve had enough sleep that he doesn’t feel bad about rousing them.  Besides, he plans for them to leave here headed for home anyway. No need to rest up for that.  He hesitates for just a moment before he knocks, realizing that Stiles’ heart rate isn’t slow enough to indicate sleep; he supposes he’s not the only one with nightmares.

He knocks loudly at the door three times before saying, “It’s Derek.”

He can hear them snap to attention. He hears the scramble as they both get out of their beds and the slight metallic scrape as the sheriff slides his gun off what’s probably the table by the bed.  It’s the sheriff who answers the door, opening it with the chain still latched.

“Is something wrong with the pack?” he asks.

“Everyone’s fine,” Derek assures him and realizes how terribly not-true that statement is.  “Well—nothing new, anyway.”

“You don’t want him to go to Singer,” the sheriff says.  “That why you’re here?”

Derek nods once.  “He’s not human by hunter standards. There’s too much risk.”

"If Stiles says it’s what he needs to cope with this, I’m taking him.  That’s all there is to it.”

“I still need to talk to him,” Derek insists, not giving up on that argument—he’ll take it up with Stiles soon enough—but still moving to a new point.  “Please,” he adds as an afterthought.

As much as he dreads the conversation, he _has_ to get a gauge for exactly how bad the damage is with Stiles before just guessing at Stiles’ reaction to all this drives him insane. Maybe it was the dangers involved with Stiles visiting a hunter that got him out the door, but he knows, though he’d never admit it, that he really just needs to talk to Stiles. He needs to see just how fucked up everything is.  He needs to see that however pissed Stiles may be, he’s okay—or will be.  He needs to understand where they’re at so he can figure out what the hell he can possibly do to try and make up for some of the damage.  He needs a gauge for what kind of chance he has at salvaging some kind of pack from all this.  

The sheriff glances back into the room, clearly looking for his son’s reaction.

“There’s a diner across the street, Dad,” Stiles says finally. “You should go grab some breakfast before we hit the road.”

“I’ll have my phone on me. Call if you need anything, and I can be right back.”

“Thanks.”

The sheriff must’ve slept in his clothes because he opens the door fully then and strides out past Derek.  When their gazes meet, the man’s message is as clear as if he’d spoken it aloud.  _Hurt him, and you’ll have me to answer to._ Derek nods slightly as he moves past the sheriff into the room and shuts the door behind him.

He knows what to expect—more or less—because of Kate. He knows how hard it will be to keep the shift at bay when he sees Stiles again and his wolf instincts try to take over.  He keeps his human form well enough, but his hands are still shaking slightly in fists at his sides so he stays by the door. 

“What the hell do we even say?” Stiles asks finally. “How do we even have this conversation?”

Stiles doesn’t look him in the face when he starts talking; he just keeps his eyes trained somewhere near Derek’s shoes.

“I don’t know,” Derek admits, still trying to work out why Stiles looks so ashamed when it’s Derek who should be asking—begging—forgiveness.

“Look, I can’t even start to—” Stiles says, talking with his hands—as always—and taking a step toward Derek just as a sound like a gunshot echoes outside.

His wolf instincts assesses it all as a threat without consulting the rational side of his brain, and he can almost feel the control being ripped from his fragile mental grasp.  He’s shifting before he even has a chance to get a warning out.

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles waits, tensed, half expecting the bathroom door to rip off its hinges as Derek continues the attack, but instead he hears Derek’s wrecked, muffled voice from the other side of the door say, “Stiles, I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“I know; I get it,” Stiles replies, with as steady a voice as he can muster. “Me advancing just as that car backfired. It startled you. You’re control’s not that great at the moment. Mine’s not either.  It’s just—something we’re going to have to work on.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Derek,” Stiles says mournfully. “Neither one of us is going to forget what happened anytime soon.  After everything that happened—all the fucked up shit the demon did—there’s no going back to how things were. I know that.  There’s no forgetting this.”

_There’s no ignoring the fact that something as seemingly harmless as me taking one step toward you triggers some kind of flashback painful enough to get you shifting uncontrollably when the full moon doesn’t even cause that anymore. We are so screwed._

“I just lost the control for a minute.  I’ll get it back to normal soon.  It won’t happen again,” Derek insists.

“It’s really okay.  I mean it’s not like—after everything that happened with this I can’t—we can’t—be the same anymore. I won’t forget what happened those days—there’s no way either of us will forget—so then there’s no way we can make this work after—after everything.”

Derek’s silent so long Stiles would think he’d walked away except for the steady drum of his heartbeat from the other side of the door.

“You’re right,” Derek agrees, and even though Stiles expected the answer he still feels the sharp sting of the rejection.

“I won’t let it affect pack business,” Stiles promises, determined not to let his voice betray just how badly he didn’t want Derek to agree they couldn’t go back. “I can keep it objective.”

“What?”

“Even if we’re not together, I can keep it objective. I swear.”

“But you’re staying in the pack?”

He tries to ignore the panic that erupts in his chest at the surprise in Derek’s voice.  Derek clearly wasn’t anticipating Stiles remaining part of the pack.

_Oh shit. Don’t kick me out. I can’t handle losing you and the pack too. Please don’t say I can’t stay. I’m going to make up for this. Whatever it takes, I’ll make up for this._

“I mean—yeah, if that’s—I mean, you’re the alpha, you get the last say or whatever—but I was hoping.  I mean regardless of what’s going on with us, I thought I could at least stay in and do something. I don’t have to be second, if you don’t want me to be that involved, I just—”

“Of course you can stay in the pack; you can stay second. I just didn’t expect that you’d stay after—”

Some of his panic ebbs, and Stiles continues, “Look, I know that I can’t undo this, but I can do everything in my power to make sure nothing like this happens again. I’m going to research it all; I’ll learn the defenses. I won’t let myself be a weapon against the pack again. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“What?”

“Sam mentioned before that Singer could help us with research.  He called him for me, and Singer says he’ll teach me.  I’ll learn more preventative stuff like the anti-possession wards, and I’ll learn other creatures that might be able to take advantage of my spark. I’ll figure out how to—”

“Stiles—”

“How to defend us against those kinds of things so we—”

“Stiles—”

“So we can keep the pack safe. Derek, I swear I’m not going to be a liability. I know how important protecting the pack is.  I’m not going to cost you the pack. I’ll—”

“ _Stiles!”_

“Yeah?” he responds hesitantly.

“This wasn’t your fault,” Derek tells him quietly.  “Nobody blames you.”

Derek’s anger he could take but not his forgiveness.

“Two days, Derek. _Two days_ that I let it have complete control and you couldn’t even fight back because you wouldn’t hurt me.  What I let it do to you—I—”

 “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

“Yes, I could’ve, and I wasn’t strong enough.  It was too little too late by the time I got my shit together, and I should’ve done something earlier. Derek, I swear I tried, but I just couldn’t—but you gotta believe that I tried. I—”

The door swings open, and Stiles closes his eyes and braces himself for the blow.  He can’t even find it in himself to cower.  Instead Derek’s entirely human hands frame his face.

“Hey, look at me,” he commands, tilting Stiles’ face upward; Stiles can’t quite bring himself to meet Derek’s eyes. “Look. At. Me,” Derek orders again.

“God, Derek. I’m so sorry,” Stiles chokes out as his gaze finally meets Derek’s.

“This is not the conversation I wanted to have,” Derek tells him.  “You don’t have to apologize for _anything._ I know you would have stopped it all if you could.  It’s not your fault, okay?”

Stiles shakes his head and pulls back, shoving Derek’s hands away.

“I mean it,” Derek persists. “All that things it said about you—the demon was fucking with your mind, Stiles. This wasn’t your fault, none of that stuff was your fault—not Scott or Lydia or your mom—”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Stiles interjects, “about my mom I mean. They don’t know—well my dad of course but we’ve never actually talked about—I couldn’t handle it if they knew—I just—I couldn’t.  The other stuff too with Scott and Lydia; I know they know, but if you could just _please_ not remind them that it’s my—”

“What part of ‘not your fault’ is so hard to understand?”

“Look, you can say that all you want, but the fact still stands that without me, none of that would’ve happened to them, okay? I know it; we all know it. The demon was right. I should just leave everyone the fuck alone and stop dragging people into shit with me, but I can’t make myself stay on the sideline. So I’m going to at least try and get Singer to teach me how to be a little less of a liability.  That’s why I _have_ to go.”

“Don’t think that.”

“But I do need to see Singer so I—”

“I mean about staying on the sideline; don’t think that.”

“It’s true though,” Stiles confesses miserably. 

“Fine. Maybe all that would’ve happened differently if you hadn’t been there,” Derek agrees; it’s almost a relief to have him finally admitting he sees the truth.  “But,” he continues, “I’d be dead ten times over if you hadn’t been around.  You helped save Jackson.  If you hadn’t been there to help us negotiate with the Winchesters when the alphas came through, the whole damn pack could’ve been wiped out. You’re not the cause of the problems, Stiles. You just get thrown in shitty circumstances and have to make the best of it. It doesn’t make any of it your fault. It doesn’t make you any less of an asset.”

Stiles is blinking back tears for what seems like the millionth time in two days. “Derek—”

 “And I shouldn’t—didn’t—expect you to stay after everything you know now, but I’m glad you say you’ll stay because this pack _needs_ you. They shouldn’t lose you just because I—”

“Wait,” Stiles interrupts, processing Derek’s words.  “Didn’t expect me to stay after everything I know now?” he repeats.

Derek nods, and now it’s Derek that can’t seem to hold the eye contact.  He takes a step back from Stiles like he doesn’t belong so close to him, and Stiles would take a step to close the gap if he wasn’t worried about making Derek shift again.

“You mean about the fire?”

Another nod and another step back; this time he turns away from Stiles completely.

“I don’t expect you to keep that a secret,” Derek says, and the tone of defeat in his voice is enough to jar Stiles from his own melancholic mindset.  

Maybe Stiles is pretty messed up and insecure after everything that happened, but from the sounds of it something in Derek is fucking _broken._ His own issues be damned, Derek has no reason to feel the way he sounds.  The demon’s words replay in Stiles mind: _You never told anyone.  That’s an awful lot of guilt to walk around with, Derek._

The thought alone makes Stiles feel ill.

_So for eight years Derek’s been convinced he carries the blame for his entire family’s death, terrified of anyone learning the truth, and now he thinks that secret is going to fuck up everything he’s built back? Dammit, Stilinski, get your head out of your ass and pay attention! You should’ve thought about this—should’ve made sure he was okay before skipping town—should’ve helped him instead of being so damn eager to prove yourself. If you’re so determined to help protect the pack, don’t overlook the problems right in front of your face.  You know better than anybody that Derek’s more breakable than he’d like the world to think._

“I’m not going to tell anyone; I wouldn’t do that to you,” Stiles assures him, “but I’m glad I heard it.”

“You don’t have to watch out for what I do. I’m not going to let someone that close to the pack again.”

“Not because it serves as some kind of warning against you, you idiot. I’m glad because you shouldn’t have to deal with that by yourself.”

Derek say nothing so Stiles continues, “And you realize we’re having a different version of the same conversation we just had? Three minutes ago I was the one trying to convince you I wouldn’t be a liability, and now you’re doing the same thing to me.”

“It’s different.”

“No, it’s not.  The fire wasn’t your—”

“It _was_ my fault!” Derek insists, turning back to Stiles as his eyes flare red. “It was completely my fault! I let her get close to us. She knew more than anyone outside the pack should _ever_ be allowed to figure out. Everything she needed to entirely destroy us I practically handed to her on a silver platter. My family _burned alive_ because I was too damn preoccupied with the fun of fucking Kate Argent to realize what was happening!”

_“She was goddamn psychopath preying on a sixteen-year-old kid! That’s not your fault! You’re not supposed to expect every person you sleep with to be plotting the demise of your family.  That’s not something you could’ve seen coming, Derek.”_

“I saw the look on your face, Stiles.  That was the whole point of it giving you minimal control when I told you the truth.   I _saw_ how disgusted you—”

“That wasn’t directed at you, Derek. It was a reaction to Kate.  I knew she was twisted, but I never would have thought she’d pull something that messed up. _She was a manipulative bitch.  It’s not your fault half the Argents are fucked up sociopaths! That’s what_ I was about to say to you when the demon took back over. I didn’t—I don’t think any less of you after hearing what happened with Kate.  You’re still a good person.  You’re a good alpha.”

Derek doesn’t respond, but the look on his face conveys quite clearly that Stiles’ words are barely scratching the surface of all the blame Derek’s piled on himself.

_Eight years, dude. Gonna take more than a couple sentences from you to break through that.  It’s not like you can believe him about Mom either._

“Tell me I’m lying,” Stiles prods. 

Derek still doesn’t reply.

“Look, we’ve both clearly got issues and secrets and shit to deal with,” Stiles says.  “We can talk ‘til we’re blue in the face, but we’re not going to figure this all out right now.  The point is, after what went down with the demon, we know some heavy stuff about each other, which sucks for both of us, but even knowing all this we don’t hate each other, right? That part of the demon’s mindfuck didn’t work?”

_Please agree with me. Please say you don’t totally hate me._

“No,” Derek says. “I guess that part didn’t work.”

Derek still seems surprised by that, like he’s still waiting for Stiles to bail on him so Stiles is going to spend the foreseeable future convincing Derek that there’s nothing that could make him bail on Derek or the pack.

"So the important thing is we still both want to see the pack protected. We just want what’s best for the pack.  We can still be a good alpha/second pair regardless of transitioning to—whatever we are now.  Friends, I guess?”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, and his face is carefully blank so that Stiles can’t read anything further from him.

As much as Stiles wants to pry and see what else is going through Derek’s mind, he can’t bring himself to push the issue.  This conversation is just the first few stitches on a wound that’s going to need some serious time and help to heal, but it’s all he can manage right now—all either of them can manage if he had to guess where Derek’s at on things—and it’s not even quite over.

“Okay then,” Stiles says forcing a smile before he shifts the conversation. “And, about going to Singer. I know you really don’t like it. I know you think it’s too dangerous, but I’ve got to go to Singer’s before I can go back to Beacon Hills.  Not just because I’m the second and it’s my responsibility to help protect the pack but because if I have to feel sure I could fight something like this if it ever came up again. If I don’t, I’m going to be terrified every fucking day of my life that I’ll bring the pack to its knees—or worse.  I can’t live with that hanging over my head.  I can’t function as second with that hanging over my head.  This is something I need to do.”

“No.  Deaton will teach you—or Argent.  You can find a different way to—”

“Deaton’s not interested in much beyond ambiguous spirit-guide type references about harnessing my spark. Chris just recovered from the demon attack himself, and clearly their house wasn’t set up to fend it off or we wouldn’t have been there in the first place. Sam called this Singer guy. He knows I’m a wielder, but he says he’ll help anyway. He sent help for us after I called asking questions about the dreams.  I’ve got my magic.  I’ve got my dad as backup. It’ll be okay, and it’ll make us stronger pack.”

“Stiles—”

“I need this, Derek,” _and I’m going whether you like it or not._  “Please?”

Derek holds his gaze a minute or two more before sighing.

“I get it,” he says finally. “I don’t want to, but I do.” 

“I appreciate that.”

Stiles studies Derek a moment or two longer, wondering but afraid to ask if Kate is why Derek gets it.  After a betrayal like that, it’s no wonder Derek tried to just shut everyone out. So he couldn’t be used against his pack again? It sheds a whole new light on Derek’s insistence that outsiders be treated with extreme caution; it takes it from paranoid to practical.

“You keep your phone on you at all times,” Derek instructs, “Danny’ll keep a track on it.  You or your father call in every hour.  If you miss one, we’ll be on a plane to come and get you.  Keep your dragon skin on, and stay armed.   Don’t let him know how powerful you are.  I know your control’s shaky, but you’ve got to keep it in check.  I don’t care if Sam Winchester trusts him; it doesn’t mean you can afford to. Don’t let your guard down for a minute, understand me? Not for a _minute._ ”

“I’ll be careful; I swear.”

“And I’m following you two to Sioux Falls.  I won’t come with you to the hunter’s place, but I’ll be close by.  Keep your phone on when you go up to the house, like you did for the Winchester negotiations.”

“Okay, but once I’m in without getting shot at, you get back to the pack before Lydia starts to rival your spot as alpha,” he agrees with a grin to try and lighten the mood.

“I plan to.”

“Does it mess with you?” Stiles asks, curiosity speaking before he can stop it.  “Being so far from pack territory?”

“Of course it does.”

“Me too,” Stiles admits. “I didn’t really feel the pull until three or four hours into the drive, but it’s—”

“Like an itch you can’t scratch in the back of your mind,” Derek finishes.

“Yeah.”

“All the more reason to make this little visit with Singer quick as you can. You belong back with the pack.”

Stiles can’t help smiling at that. 

“Yeah,” he agrees.

Stiles is still just damn grateful Derek didn’t panic and want the potential spark-weapon kid as far from his pack as possible.  He wants to tell Derek how much it means that they can at least still be friends. He wants Derek to know how much it helps to hear him say things like _you belong with the pack._ He wants to tell Derek how scared he was that they’d never even have a real conversation again and how relieved he is to know they can still at least try to talk through shit.  The problem is that everything sounds too cheesy in his head, and he’s a little afraid that any endeavor into talking-about-feelings territory will end up in Stiles revealing just how badly he wants to be more than friends, even though Derek agreed that there was no going back to that.

In the end, Stiles settles on saying, “I know we’ve still got a lot of shit to deal with from this and all, but I’m still really glad we’re not dead.”

It gets a small, momentary smile out of Derek which is better than anything Stiles might’ve hoped for. 

“Me too,” Derek agrees.  “Call your dad. We should hit the road. Sooner you get there and get this defense research stuff started, the sooner you can get back to Beacon Hills.”

 

           

 


	8. Chapter 8

With Derek in his car less than a quarter mile down the road, his dad staked out behind some clunker cars in the side-yard, and both of them listening in via the cell phone in Stiles’ hoodie pocket, Stiles approaches Bobby Singer’s house slowly.

“Uh—Mr. Singer?” Stiles calls as he knocks hesitantly on the door.  “My name is Stiles. Sam said you’d be expecting me.”

He can hear the click of the gun and the slight tap of it against the back of the door as Singer opens it just a crack. 

“Stiles, huh?” he asks, looking Stiles up and down and apparently deciding Stiles doesn’t look like too much of a threat since he doesn’t shoot him through the door. 

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Here’s the deal,” he says.  “You come in. You walk slow. You take my tests so I know you’re not a shifter or a demon, and I won’t shoot you.  Sound fair?”

“Uh—sure.”

"Good.  One more thing, I know what you are, boy. You so much as rattle the wind chimes on the front porch too loud, and I’ll put you down faster than you can blink. No magic in this house, got it?”

“Got it.  Although—the wind chime thing? Not really fair since it’s outside and  it could, in fact, actually not be my fault if they ring really loud—so maybe double check before you—” judging by Singer’s glare he’s not a fan of the Stiles Stilinski brand of humor.  “Or not,” Stiles finishes flatly. 

"Come on then,” Singer says.

He eyes Stiles carefully as he moves through the house.  It’s the least fidgeting Stiles has probably ever managed in his life, but a jumpy old dude with a gun tends to inspire some intense attention to detail.  They walk into a cluttered kitchen, and Bobby gestures to the counter.

“See that knife?” he asks.  “Knick your arm with it.”

“What?”

“You do the tests, or you get your scrawny ass shot.  Pick up the knife.”

“Right. Picking up the knife,” Stiles says, obliging.  “Happy?” he asks once a small trickle of blood springs from the fresh cut.

“Now that glass of water on the counter.”

Stiles obliges, but he can’t help the face he makes as he downs it.  “What the hell is soapy water supposed to test for?”

"It’s not soapy; it’s holy.”

“It tastes soapy,” Stiles informs him.  “Like soap and a little hint of bleach and a weird _clean_ aftertaste.” 

“You fucking with me, boy?”

“Yep. You got me,” Stiles says sardonically.  “I came all the way from California just to trick you into thinking your holy water is full of soap.”

“Look smartass—”

“Don’t shoot me, okay?” Stiles says, retreating back a few steps.  “I’m just—I joke a lot when I’m nervous and guns make me nervous so really you just brought this on yourself, dude.”

“Well, if guns make you so nervous, how about you hand over that one you’ve got tucked in the back of your jeans, and we’ll have a talk about whatever the hell it is you expect me to teach  you.”

Stiles considers refusing for a moment, but that’s not going to get him anywhere. Besides, there’s still the knife strapped to his leg and his magic.  He doesn’t _need_ the gun.

“You gonna shoot me if I reach for it?”

“Not so long as you go slow.”

“Right.”  Stiles pulls the gun out.  “Now what?”

“Put it on the counter over there.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

They stand staring at one another for a moment or two more before Singer gestures to the table.

“Have a seat.” 

Stiles does, and he’s starting to wonder how this guy is ever going to let his guard down long enough to teach Stiles anything. Derek’s words replay in his head: _I don’t care if Sam Winchester trusts him; it doesn’t mean you can afford to._ Singer’s probably just playing to the same caution.

“So how much do you already know about demons?”

“Not a lot. I mean, I’ve read lore, but I don’t know how much of it’s true, ya know?  If the percentage of werewolf lore out there that’s total bullshit is any indicator, I don’t know much of anything even though I’ve read plenty of stuff on demons.”

“So what do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“I don’t know all that much about demons myself, but I—”

“I’m going to go ahead and let you in on a secret,” Stiles interrupts.  “Even if Sam hadn’t already told me that you know more about demons than anyone else he knows, I can hear the lie in your heartbeat.  So spare the games and the tricks, Mr. Singer. I don’t think either of us has time to waste on that.”

He assesses Stiles a moment or two, sizing him up again.  “No games or tricks, huh?” he repeats and Stiles nods.  “Fine, but that goes both ways.”

“What?”

"You can drop the scared, wounded teenager act; you’re a wielder and the second of a werewolf pack.  You’re not just some dumb kid who strolled in here on a whim.  You know how to take care of yourself.”

 “I do,” Stiles agrees, “but I’d be an idiot not to be fully aware that my reputation won’t stop you from shooting me point blank.”

 “True.” 

 “Look, I’m not trying to pull anything over on you,” Stiles says honestly.  “Sam just said you could help me.  All I want is someone to teach me what I need to know to keep my pack alive, and I’ll be on my way. I’ll never bother you again, I swear.”     He’s got on his best Scott McCall patented puppy dog face, and he hopes it’s helping, but Singer doesn’t seem too moved.  “Have you ever been possessed?” Stiles asks.

 "No.”

“It’s the worst feeling you can possibly imagine,” Stiles says.  “To be trapped in your own body and watch the demon use you to inflict harm on the people you care about.   To know that they can’t fight back without hurting or killing you—leaving you both the most helpless you’ve ever been and—”

“I get the picture,” Singer says gruffly

Judging by the look on his face, something Stiles said sparked a memory in the man; Stiles would bet big money on it.  He doesn’t know Singer’s backstory, but he can guess part of it:  Singer’s never been possessed, but he’s known someone who was.

“I can’t go through anything like that again; I _need_ to help protect my pack, and I’m asking you to help me,” Stiles says.  “Please.”

“Truth is, I don’t want a demon to get control of a wielder’s power any more than you do,” Bobby says finally.  “I’ll teach you what I can.”

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The first couple hours with Singer are excruciating.  The hunter guesses easily enough that Stiles didn’t come alone. Once Derek’s headed back to Beacon Hills and his dad’s sitting in the car out front—Singer says he doesn’t care to be outnumbered in his own house—he sits Stiles at the kitchen table with a pile of books, lets Stiles run out to the truck to get his computer, and then they start going over protective wards. There’s not enough Adderall in the world to keep Stiles’ nervous fidgeting at bay.  It makes Singer jumpy, and Stiles _really_ wishes the dude would put the gun down for two seconds.

“Do you _ever_ sit still?” Singer demands as he grabs a beer from the fridge.

“Not really,” Stiles replies absentmindedly as he continues to take notes on the open book in front of him; the cast on his hand is seriously affecting his words per minute. 

“I’d offer you a drink to calm your nerves if you weren’t a fucking kid.  You’re too young to be in the middle of shit storms like this.”

 “Tell that to the demon that possessed me,” Stiles quips back.  “Apparently I should’ve started learning all this a long time ago.”  Singer returns to his seat across from Stiles.  “And drinking wouldn’t help anyway. It just pulls focus off my control, and then you’d shoot me so…”

“Exactly how much control do you have?” Singer asks.

Stiles has been wondering when the questions would start.  Singer clearly spends a lot of his time compiling research, and Stiles is the prime candidate for all kinds of information.

“Enough,” Stiles replies with a shrug.

“Enough to keep you from hurting people but not enough to keep it _completely_ bottled up.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The fact that my wind chimes have been awfully melodic for the past half hour.”

With a jolt of panic Stiles becomes aware of the back corner of his mind that has been unconsciously blowing the chimes. He keeps them going because he knows the sudden quiet would give it away at once.

“Maybe the wind’s just feeling musically inclined today,” Stiles suggests.

“There is no wind.  The chimes are the only thing moving.”

He lets them rest and brings his gaze up to meet Singer’s, trying to read the hunter’s thoughts. He doesn’t seem to be angry or feel threatened; he looks more intrigued than anything. Something about it reminds Stiles of Sam.

“I don’t mean to do it,” Stiles explains. “It’s like humming or something, ya know? I just—”

“Relax, kid.  It’s fine.”

“Not that I’m complaining, but I clearly remember a ‘if you so much as rattle the wind chimes too loud’ threat.”

“Exactly,” Singer replies. “I said don’t ring them _too loud_ , so if you keep playing ‘em quiet like you have been, we’ll be just fine.”

There’s a smile playing at the corner of Singer’s lips. If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say the hunter was starting to warm up to him. 

“Awesome,” Stiles says with a smile.  “Thanks.”

  

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Hungry?”

“Kind of,” Stiles admits, though in truth he’s starving.

“You eat regular food, right?”

“Actually, I think I’ll run out back and catch a rabbit with my teeth,” Stiles replies. “You don’t mind do you? No bunnies you’re particularly fond of that I should avoid?  I’ll save you the feet to make amulets.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m allergic to strawberries,” Stiles informs him. “Other than that, yes, I eat regular food.”

“There’s leftover beef stew in the fridge, or you can make yourself a peanut butter sandwich.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says with a grin. 

He rises slowly from the table, still careful not to make sudden movements; about an hour ago, Singer transitioned from holding the gun every moment to lying in near his hand on the table.  Stiles is a fan of the progress. He’s not going to be the cause of any backsliding. He hesitates with his hand on the fridge door.

“Hey, Mr. Singer. Is it cool if I maybe take my dad something?”

“Sure, I don’t care.  Take your dad something,” Singer encourages.

“Thanks.”

Stiles decides that waiting patiently in the car all evening while being simultaneously bored and on edge earns his dad a free pass on the red meat for the night. He heats up the beef stew and turns to Singer.

“Second drawer from the left,” Singer tells Stiles before he can ask.

Stiles grabs a fork and heads out to the car.  He can’t smell anything off with the dish—it actually smells pretty good—but he tries it anyway just to make sure this isn’t a trick or a test.  It seems harmless enough.

“Everything okay?” his dad asks, getting out of the car.

“Well, he hasn’t shot me yet,” Stiles replies, “so that’s something.”

“What’s that?” his dad asks nodding to the bowl Stiles is holding.

“He offered food, and I thought you might want something to eat, too.  It’s beef stew. Pretty good actually. I tried it, and there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s not a trick.”

“Thanks, kiddo. I appreciate it.”

“You’re the one stuck in the truck for the past six hours.”

“How’s it going in there? He really know his stuff?”

“I think I’ll be able to pretty much demon-proof a building when I get back to Beacon Hills, so that’s something.  I’ve got a couple exorcisms copied down for us to learn.  Stuff like that. He’s got a killer library.”

“Good,” his dad says with a smile.  “So how long are we staying exactly?”

“I don’t know.  I mean—the demon stuff is great, but I bet I’m barely scratching the surface of all the information he’s got in there. I’m gonna go ‘til he kicks me out.”

“Well, if you need a break, I’ll take a shift.  I’m here to help.”

“Thanks, dad.”

“Sure thing.”

 

*********************************************************************

 

 “Can I put on another pot of coffee?” Stiles asks when he goes to get another cup and realizes it’s empty.

 “It’s three in the morning. Don’t you know when to quit?”

 “Not really.”

 “Why’re you so determined to keep going?”

 “Because I don’t know how long you’re letting me stay.  I’ve gotten more useful information in the past twelve hours than in weeks of searching on my own online. I’m not wasting a minute, dude.”

 “So you’re keeping me up ‘til all hours of the night because you think this is a one shot deal?”

 “Isn’t it?”

 “There’s a couple motels back in town.  You and your dad go get a room, get some sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

 “Really?”

 “Not before nine, you hear?”

 “Yeah, sure thing.”

 Stiles gathers his notes and marks his places in the books. Then he moves toward the counter.

 “You gonna shoot me if I pick my gun back up?” he asks with a smile. 

 Singer’s gun is casually lying on the end of the table.  Stiles knows the man’s too smart to have let his guard down completely, but he’s not tensing with Stiles every move anymore. 

 “Take it,” Singer permits, “but don’t bring it back in tomorrow.”

 “Okay.” 

 He follows Stiles to the door, no doubt planning to latch the three locks there once Stiles is out.  He wonders how many different types of wards protect this house.  He might just ask in the morning.

 "Thanks, Mr. Singer,” Stiles says earnestly, turning before he walks down the stairs. “I really appreciate all this.”

 “The name’s Bobby, kid,” the hunter replies, “and it’s not a problem.”

 “See ya tomorrow then, Bobby.”

 “Not before nine,” Bobby reminds him as he shuts the door.  “Don’t forget that part.”

 “I won’t.”

 

********************************************************************

 

 “9:05,” Bobby says when he opens the door. “You don’t mess around, do ya?”

 “Not when it counts,” Stiles replies. 

 “What’s that?” the hunter asks, eyeing the two to-go boxes in Stiles is holding.

 “I wasn’t sure if you were a waffle kind of guy or a turkey-bacon-and-egg-whites kind of guy, so I brought both.”

 “You brought breakfast?”

  _It’s a peace offering, dude. Just take it._

 “Yeah. You provide supper; we bring breakfast. Fair trade, right?”

 "You brought _turkey bacon_ and _egg whites_?”

 “My dad’s cholesterol and blood pressure are through the roof, so he’s kind of on a diet—enforced by me.  If he’d gotten in the car with real bacon and eggs, there’s no way I’d’ve won that fight, wielder or not.”

“You run around with a werewolf pack and you think your old man’s heart problems are the thing to worry about?”

“I run around with a werewolf pack and I _wish_ my dad’s heart problems were the only thing to worry about.”

“Fair enough,” Bobby concedes, and he looks almost sad for a minute—on Stiles behalf? 

Stiles wonders if Bobby started this thing out with a Dean Winchester mentality, at least as far as the behavior of supernatural entities is concerned. Dean had been pretty thrown off by the fact that werewolves had homework and minimum wage jobs and did normal _human_ shit like everybody else; he’d had to change his perspective a little.  It seems like Bobby might be having to make similar adjustments.

“You coming in or what?”

“You gonna shoot me if I do?” Stiles asks, something in continuing to ask the question feels like an inside joke; he likes it.

“Shut up, ya idjit,” Bobby replies, opening the door for him.

The hunter’s still got his gun in his hand this morning, but the atmosphere between them is entirely different.  They’re miles from where they were yesterday. It’s not trust exactly; maybe more like mutual respect—or something along those general lines?  Whatever it is, Stiles definitely prefers this to the way he entered the house yesterday.  He places the to-go boxes on the kitchen counter for Singer to examine and choose between and walks over to the table to start spreading his notes out again.

“You can pick up where you left off with the shapeshifter lore,” Bobby says, eying the turkey bacon and egg whites like they’re the most revolting presentation of food he’s ever seen.  “and then once you’re done with that I got some books on spirits you should take a look at.”

“Did you mark these after I left last night?” Stiles asks.

“No, all my books have a horrible disease that makes them break out in post-it notes,” Bobby replies, rolling his eyes.

“You know, I’m glad that, even though we have our differences, we can at least bond over our fluency in sarcasm,” Stiles replies with an exaggeratedly earnest smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby mutters. “Fact is, if I don’t give you the sparknotes version of all this, I’m never going to get rid of you.”

“And if the spark notes version leaves out something important?”

“It won’t.  Don’t think these books are full-proof just ‘cause they’re old. People’ve been recording bullshit since the dawn of time. They’re not all exactly gems.”

“No?”

“There’s one over there that’s a fifteen chapter anthology on the evils of the Anti-Claus.”

“Anti-Claus? Like evil Santa?”

“Like evil Santa,” Bobby confirms with a sigh.  “The trick of research is learning to spot bullshit when you see it but not discount any reasonable possibilities. You never really know when the variables will pop up.  Everything I marked is stuff I know without a doubt is true.  If you want to sift through it all, be my guest, but I’m guessing you’d rather be back to your pack sooner than later.”

Stiles nods his agreement as he flips to the first section Bobby tabbed off.

“How long before the pull’s so strong you have to go back?” Bobby wonders aloud. “You can’t stay away long, can you?”

“Hmm?” Stiles asks, looking up from the page.

He processes the question. It seems part how-long-am-I-stuck-with-you and part I’m-honestly-curious.

“The pull of the pack,” Bobby says. “How long can you resist it?”

“The ‘pull of the pack’?,” Stiles repeats and then guesses, “You’ve been researching my species of werewolf?”

“You don’t have a species of werewolf, kid. You’re a wielder with some side-bonus wolf powers.”

“You talked to Argent,” Stiles continues to speculate. “Read my file?”

“Read all his files actually—all he’d share anyway.  I realized there was a gap in my research after Sam and Dean gave me the rundown of what happened last year.”

“You have Argents’ files?”

“Don’t even think about it. Not sharing.”

“Fair enough since I’m not planning to answer any of your questions about us.”  Singer looks almost disappointed.  “Come on, dude. If you’ve read the file you know the pack history.  Even if I was stupid enough to _want_ to tell you something, my alpha’d rip my throat out on principle alone.  Never trust a hunter; it’s like rule number one.”

_Okay, rule number one is probably ‘protect your pack’ so it’s like a sub-clause of rule number one, but whatever._

“Would he really?”

“Would who really what?” Stiles asks

He’s trying to appear engrossed enough in getting back to the research that Singer will stop asking questions; apparently it’s not working.

“Would Hale rip your throat out?”

_Yes. Maybe? He’d at least maim me a little probably?_

"What do you care?”

“Just curious.”

"No,” Stiles says because even if there’s a little bit of doubt in it Bobby won’t hear. It’s more important to emphasize for the hunter that Derek isn’t some kind of tyrannical monster. “He’d kick me out of the pack though, which is worse.”

“So you’re definitely there by choice, then?”

"Of course.”

“You could leave any time you wanted to?”

“Why would I want to?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically, yes. Why’re you so interested in this?”

“Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd.”

Stiles keeps his face carefully voice of reaction.  “What about them?”

“They’re still listed as missing by their parents’ reports and in Argent’s files.   It’s not unheard of for an alpha to kill deserters; in fact, it’s outlined as proper punishment in most of the old customs.”

It’s a fair enough question, but it’s also something that could easily get Stiles talking about the pack and pack dynamics.  He’s not walking into that conversation with a hunter. That’s all there is to it. He’s also not going to leave Bobby thinking Derek murdered two teenagers and needs to be taken down.

 “You studied the old customs?” Stiles asks, and Bobby nods. “Then you know how seriously we take any slander of the pack, especially our alpha.” 

Referring to Derek as the alpha has the same small ping of strengthening the pack bond it usually does, but, at this distance, it also intensifies his awareness of just how far he is from the pack.  Bobby doesn’t reply, but he’s tense now.  His hand moves almost imperceptibly toward the gun on the table.

“I don’t want you to think this is a threat,” Stiles says, fighting the urge to rise for this comment and settling for a general glare across the table at Bobby, “because we’ve gotten to a pretty chill spot in the past twenty-four hours, and I really do appreciate all your help. I also think you’re mostly asking because you’d want to help us if we were stuck in the pack somehow—which means you actually care about the people in it, werewolves or not.”

“But?” Bobby prods when Stiles pauses.

“But if you _ever again_ suggest in front of me that my alpha is the kind of heartless bastard that could kill two teenagers in cold blood for requesting to leave in peace, I’m not going to be able to ignore a comment like that. Especially when I know hunters you’d probably defend actually _have_ attempted that. I’ve  seen firsthand how unyielding hunters can be in their attack, and I don’t appreciate you lumping our alpha in with those kind of monsters just because he’s a little less human than the rest of you.”

“Point taken,” Bobby says solemnly and shakes his head a little and some of the tension disperses. “Sam did say you were loyal as hell.”

“He’s right.”

“Family business speech at the negotiations,” Bobby says. “That was you, right?”

"They told you about that?”

“It’s the reason I leave it to Argent and don’t send hunters through to check up on your pack.  Getting that kind of pack loyalty from a human—it doesn’t happen.  It’s rare for humans in packs to be treated as anything more than amusing sidekick pets, much less serve as second.  The idea of building a pack for the sake of a forming a family unit and not just building a pack for the strategic sake of protection isn’t a common one in the old traditions, but I guess you know that.”

Stiles nods. “We know exactly how lucky we are to have the pack we do; it’s why we’ll fight like hell to defend it.”

“Good for you,” Bobby says with an approving nod.  “Family don’t end with blood.”

“No,” Stiles agrees.  He turns the comment back to Bobby when he adds, “You know, it’s pretty rare to find a group of hunters who hunt for the right reasons and not just for the sake of venting pent-up aggression issues.  Chris Argent and you and Sam—it’s not so different from us.  It’s not about being human or not. It’s about doing the right thing when it counts, which is rare no matter what species or creature you’re talking about.”

Singer doesn’t reply, but he nods.  “You know when you stop rambling like an idjit, you can make some decent points, kid.”

Stiles shrugs. “So can we roll credits on this heart-to-heart?” _and stop trying to psycho-analyze my pack?_  “Because we’ve got a lot of lore to get through.”

“Yeah, roll credits,” Bobby says clearing his throat and grabbing three more books from the shelf to pile on the table.  “Tell your dad to get in here and help you take notes,” he adds.  “Two of you working’ll get you out of my hair twice as fast.  Just tell him to leave the gun in the car.”

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek answers on the second ring.  Panic surges through him because this isn’t one of the scheduled check-ins, and he’s already on his feet and halfway to the door when he speaks.

“Stiles?”

“Hey, we’re headed back to Beacon Hills,” Stiles says. “I think I got enough to keep me busy for a while.”

"Good.”

“The pack okay?”

_They’re just as okay as they were when you called Scott to check in fifteen minutes ago._

“Yeah, fine, but you should talk to Lydia when you get back.”

“Okay. Any particular reason?”

“Partly that she still says she’s going to kick your ass or running off like that without an explanation, so brace yourself,” Derek informs him.  “Partly because she says Sam told her that her powers were nothing to worry about, and it’s not a lie.  I still get the feeling there’s more going on with her. She’s been weird the past couple days, and there’s something up with her pack bond. If we don’t figure out what it is I’m going to have to murder Scott and Isaac for whining about the pack bond being wonky and Jackson for managing to annoy the shit out of her trying to get the full story to the extent that she’s been avoiding the pack house.” 

“Yeah, I’ll check on her. No problem.”

“Pack dinner’s tomorrow night. Don’t guess you’ll be back by then?” Derek asks.

  _I need back up for these emotionally wound-up betas, Stiles. I’m losing my damn mind. They’re not going to calm down until you get your ass back here._

 “Maybe.  I think we might drive straight through. That itch-you-can’t-scratch-in-the-back-of-your-mind feeling is starting to feel more like a migraine.”

 “See you soon then.”

 “Yeah, see ya.”

 They hang up, and Derek sits back on the sofa.

 “So Stiles is coming home?” Isaac calls from the kitchen.

  _No private conversations in this house.  Good. Maybe they were paying attention to the complaints about their whining._

 “About time,” Jackson grumbles moodily.  “Moron’s lucky Singer didn’t shoot him just to shut him up.”

 “I’m sure he missed you too, Jackson,” Scott teases.

 Derek doesn’t break up the ensuing scuffle.  They’re not really going to hurt each other, and he’s admittedly a little caught up in his own thoughts. 

Stiles coming back will fully break them out of this weird hiatus between before the demon and after it. Stiles will be back where he belongs, but not back with Derek.  The pack doesn’t know that yet—they think the odd tension in the bond is just because of what happened with the demon—and Derek’s not eager to put up with their comments on the matter. 

Stiles has sounded better the past few days though—at least from the snippets of conversation he’s overheard or had with Stiles over the past few days.  He’s seemed  less like the traumatized teen Derek talked to at the motel and more like the pack second with a purpose that Derek’s used to.  He hopes it means the only challenge here is keeping his feelings for Stiles in check.  If that’s all it takes to keep the pack from fracturing, he’ll take it.

_Suck it up, buttercup._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles tries to quell the sick feeling of apprehension in his gut that this pack dinner is probably going to be smothered by the overtone of blame—blame he deserves—aimed in his general direction tonight for putting the pack at such risk.  He’s gone over snarky replies to Jackson’s insults that would point out all the research he’s done to negate at least in part what a liability he’s been. He has a succinct version of all his research the past few days and how he plans to implement it to keep them all safe. He’s ready to assure them all that nothing like this will ever happen again because of him.

But his initial apology hasn’t even passed his lips before Scott nearly barrels him over with a hug.  Isaac’s there a moment later, pulling Scott off and chastising him about forgetting Stiles’ still-healing injuries.  Danny claps a welcoming hand on his uninjured shoulder.  Jackson doesn’t hug him, but he does watch Stiles with a scrutinizing eye until he’s satisfied Stiles really is okay.   Lydia’s noticeably reserved—Derek was right Stiles should talk to her—but she’s clearly still happy to see him.   Derek watches everything unfold from the distance of the porch, catching Stiles’ eye for only a moment before looking away and walking back into the house.

As they walk into the house to gather at the table for the meal—Danny’s lasagna, Stiles’ most recent favorite—it’s almost as though nothing has changed. Except for the looks he occasionally catches them giving him and Derek—carefully assessing if they were okay but trying to be subtle about it—he’d almost think they didn’t even know about the demon attack.  The pack just feels _right_ somehow. Like it’s all okay despite the minor tensions lingering around Stiles, Derek, and Lydia.  It more than he dared to hope for on the ride home today, and he’s really fucking glad for the pleasant surprise.

 *********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek can’t quite believe that everything’s gone so well up to this point—seriously cheesy-family-comedy well—but then when they’re cleaning up supper, Scott says, “Can everybody stay tonight? ‘Cause seriously the bond’s been _super_ wonky lately, and we could probably kinda use it.”

“Dude, only if we establish a firm no-reunion-sex in the house policy,” Isaac jokes with a look to Stiles and Derek.

“That won’t be a problem anymore,” Derek says flatly; he’s careful to put no anger or hurt in the statement, just a simple declaration of fact.

“Wha—I—uh—I—sorry,” Isaac stutters. “I didn’t realize—”

“You two _broke up_?” Lydia demands.  “Why would you do that?”

_You’re kidding, right? After all the shit that went down you think he could—_

In that moment, Derek is reminded just how little they all know about what actually happened.  They know of course that Stiles and Derek were taken.  They know that Derek was badly injured and Stiles didn’t come out unscathed either, but the details of it all belong to Stiles and Derek alone.  Derek’s certainly not going to be the one to provide anyone a play-by-play.  He’s damn grateful Stiles doesn’t seem interested in sharing anything with them either.

Stiles’ eyes meet Derek’s across the table. “We had our reasons,” Stiles replies ambiguously, “but we’re okay.  That’s why the pack bond’s still a little shaky, but it should be back to normal with some time.”

Derek nods his agreement.  There’s a beat or two more of awkward silence before mindless chatter erupts from all of them.  Derek latches onto a conversation with Isaac about the Angels’ recent 4-3 victory as Stiles begins telling Danny about the library at Bobby’s. Derek avoids looking over at Stiles again like his life depends on it.   They all find a rhythm once more, and the moment doesn’t ruin the evening; it gives Derek a boost of hope that the pack dynamic will be okay even with the two of them broken up. 

_Stiles is right. It’ll be normal enough with some time. Having the pack is enough; Stiles shouldn’t be stuck with me anyway.  It’ll make things simpler for everyone._

                       

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

 

Stiles spends most of his day warding the pack house.  The others pitch in, and he teaches them as they go.  He’s acutely aware of where Derek is all day, making sure he doesn’t suddenly enter a room or ever appear to initiate contact.  Derek’s balking at anything from Stiles wouldn’t just hurt or embarrass him; it would also clue the whole pack into just how damaged they both were by what happened.  Stiles doesn’t want anything like that—anything that could start questions about the details of what he let the demon do to Derek.  It ends up being pretty short work with all of them working on it, and it’s an even greater comfort than Stiles’ imagined having the sigils and traps in place.

Stiles sends them all home with copies of the notes and sketches so they can protect their own houses.  He picks up some more paint on the way be to Casa de Stilinski and has just begun painting a devil’s trap under the area rug in the living room when the doorbell rings.  He moves to answer it, grabbing his gun from where it lays on the coffee table.

“Don’t worry; It’s me,” Lydia’s voice calls from the other side. 

“Good. I was kind of hoping you’d change your mind about wanting to talk,” Stiles says as he opens the door.  “Come on in.”

“I need you to promise me something if we talk,” Lydia says.   “I’m going to tell you everything Sam said, but I need you to promise you’re not going to tell anyone about it. Not even Derek.”

Secrets aren’t good for the pack, but neither is Lydia dealing with whatever this is on her own.  He picks the lesser of two evils—he hopes.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees after a moment’s hesitation.

She walks past him into the house and settles on the couch.   It takes all of fifteen minutes to catch him up on everything Sam told her about her powers.  She plows through the information like if she stops she’ll never start again.  He tries his best to keep his reactions in check as he tries to process everything. When she’s done they sit in silence for a moment or two before Stiles breaks the quiet.

 “So why don’t you look happy to hear any of this?” Stiles asks.

“ _Demon blood,_ Stiles,” she replies.  “That can’t be good.”

“Because it’s demonic?”

“The name kind of speaks for itself.”

“What if it doesn’t have to be a bad thing? What if it’s not so different than werewolf powers?”

“How?”

“Peter bit Scott; Scott’s not an evil, psycho killer wolf.  The source of your power doesn’t determine what you do with it. With great—”

“I swear _to God_ if you quote Spiderman right now, I will _slap the_ _shit_ out of you.”

“That line is a classic,” Stiles insists though he puts his hands up in surrender.  “Come on; I’m just trying to get you to relax for a second here and really think about this without the initial shock of it getting in the way. What’s your initial reaction to it?”

She glares at him a few minutes more before she sighs and says, “It doesn’t _feel_ like a bad thing, but the hallucinations from Peter didn’t seem so bad at the beginning either.”

So that’s the problem here. She’s had her mind invaded and used once; she’s not eager to repeat the experience.

“Sam says the demon’s dead.  He says no one’s controlling these powers but you.”

“And if he’s wrong?”

“Then you tell somebody this time, and we’ll help you. I know we did a shitty job of realizing how much Peter was messing with you.  A lot of what happened is on us because we shouldn’t have kept so much from you.”

“But you thought you were protecting me. I know.”

“Which we failed miserably at back then, but that’s not the case anymore. You’re pack, Lydia. You’ve got all of us.  If something starts to feel wrong, we’ll be there to help you figure it out the same way you all help me figure out things with my spark.”  He can’t help reaching out to grab her hand.  “You won’t be on your own this time.”

She gives him a small smile.  “Thanks.”

“But this is your choice to make. If you don’t want—”

“I do want to,” she interrupts. “I really, _really_ want to see what I can do. I want to own it, not have it be this sporadic thing I’m trying to squash for the rest of my life.”

_You want to be the best at it; you’re Lydia Martin. You rock everything you’ve ever attempted.  You don’t like being anything but the top of the class, and it’d drive you insane to have this uncontrolled thing in the back of your mind forever without at least trying to master it._

“Then I think you tell the pack, and you start testing your limits,” Stiles advises.  “If you don’t want to explain the details of where the power originated, that’s fine, _buuuut_ —”

“You think I should tell Derek,” she guesses correctly.

“I think, as your alpha, he deserves to know.  I also think Jackson deserves to know, but I also promised I wouldn’t tell them.  It’s up to you.”

“Thanks for that, Stiles.”

He shrugs off the gratitude.

 

***************************************************************************

 

Derek drives up to the Stilinskis’ to see Lydia’s car parked out front. He hopes it means she’s here talking to Stiles, and he can’t help listening in     .

 Unfortunately, it seems he’s arrived just in time to hear Lydia ask, “Hey, so what exactly happened with you and Derek?”

 “I’m not gonna talk about that,” Stiles says firmly, “but it’s fine; I’m fine.”

“Don’t need to be a werewolf to know that’s a lie.” 

Derek _is_ a werewolf, and he can tell even from this distance that she’s right. Stiles isn’t fine.

“Eventually, I’ll be fine,” Stiles amends.  “We’re still going to be friends. We’re still pack. I’m not losing him completely. It’ll be fine.”

Derek can still hear the hint of a line in the statement, the seed of doubt holding it back from being fully truthful, but Lydia doesn’t press it.

“Whatever it is, you two could work it out, and you both know it.  Don’t be martyrs.”

“Lydia, just—please don’t.”

There’s so much pain in that plea that it’s all Derek can do to stay in the car.  Stiles sounds like he did back in South Dakota: broken and apologetic.  Derek _hates_ hearing him like that.  He’d give almost anything to make it stop.   Derek’s sure Lydia hear some of that too.  No doubt she wants to keep pushing—Derek almost wishes she would so maybe he could understand just how wrecked Stiles is from all this—but she has the kindness to let it rest.  She rises to leave.

“If you change your mind about talking about any of it—the demon or Derek or whatever—I’m around.”

“Thanks.”

“I think I’m gonna sleep on it before I decide how much to tell everyone; I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Okay, sounds good.  Let me know if you need any help figuring out how to ward your house.”

“Clearly you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to,” she replies. “I’ve already used dad’s credit card to order what I need to completely redecorate half the house in furniture well-suited for conveniently hiding devil’s traps and hex bags and weaponry and all those fun little goodies.  We’ll be monster proof _and_ the house will look fucking fabulous.”

_Lydia Martin, ladies and gentlemen. Supernatural interior designer._

He gets out of the car and heads toward the house as Lydia gets ready to leave.   He sees the look of panic that flashes across her face when she realizes who’s walking up.

"I’ve only been here a minute,” he promises. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Oh, okay.”  He tries not to worry that she looks so relieved to hear that.

_What the hell scares you so much you don’t  even want me to know about it Lydia?_

“I better go,” Lydia says. “You two should talk.”

“Lydia—” Stiles starts.

“No, I mean it,” Lydia insists. “Because you two getting together has been really good for both of you, and you know it. It’s been good for the pack, too.  You shouldn’t give up something that awesome without a fight.  That demon did enough damage without adding the decimation of your relationship to the list.”

"Thanks for the advice,” Stiles says flatly.  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“You two are impossible,” she informs them as she trounces away with a huff.

“You’re kinda early, aren’t you?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah, I just thought I’d come drop off the plans for Thursday’s training.  The tactics for that mock battle we’ve been talking about.”

‘ _Capture the flag on werewolf steroids’ as you like to call it._

"Oh, okay. Yeah.  So do you want to go to Minnie’s tonight like usual, or just come in here or—”

“Stiles, I’m not going to make you go to Minnie’s. I’m not coming in. I saw how you were today. You don’t even want to be in the same room as me. You don’t have to tiptoe around.  I can be just as objective as you can.”

“That’s not what—that’s not why I was—I didn’t want to—Look, dude, I know you’re gonna get flashbacks like the one you had in South Dakota.  The way I was acting—I was just trying to be careful so I wouldn’t—”

“You think I’m going to attack you again? That’s not going to happen; I promised you.”

“I know, but—”

“I wouldn’t hurt you, Stiles. You know that. I wouldn’t be around you if I didn’t think I could control the shift. I—”

“Yeah, I know that. I wasn’t scared of you. I wasn’t doing it for me; I was doing it for you.”

Lydia’s words replay in Derek’s mind: _Don’t be martyrs._ They pair with the apologetic tone Stiles was using earlier and remind his of all Stiles’ apologies back in South Dakota.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with flashbacks just because I’m around,” Stiles continues miserably as Derek’s grasp on Stiles’ perspective becomes more and more solid. “If I can take it easy for the next little while, then maybe with some time it won’t trigger as easily and—”

“You said we couldn’t go back to what we were before,” Derek interrupts.  “Did you say that because _you_ can’t go back or because _I_ can’t go back?”

“Derek—”

“Just answer the question.”

“I know you can’t—”

“So it _was_ about me? You don’t think I can get over what happened? You think because it used you to hurt me that just having you around is going to make it impossible for me to forget?”

"Yes, okay?! Is that what you want to hear? After everything that happened, everything it did, I can’t expect you to forget that and go back. I can’t expect you to bury that much shit just for the sake of staying with me.  I know it’s too much to ask for, so I’m not asking for it. I’m just glad we can be friends and keep the pack without everything we went through and found out in that basement ripping us apart.”

“Stiles, if you need us to end this so that you can cope with what happened, that’s okay, but if we don’t stay together it damn sure isn’t going to be just because you think I’m some delicate little rose petal you might crush.”

“That’s not what I meant.  I'm not saying you’re weak. I just—”

“I’ll get over what happened one way or the other; you don’t have to worry about me.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I can take care of mys—”

“Derek, a few days ago I sent you into full panic mode by taking a step toward you.  I was thrilled to come back and realize we could be in the same house without you seeming to have flashbacks.   A relationship is a whole different level of interaction, and I can’t do this knowing that I’m gonna send you back to those days with the demon—or even Kate.  I won’t put you through that.”

“It won’t trigger anything,” Derek insists.

“Lie,” Stiles calls.  “It’s not something to be ashamed of. You can’t help—”

“Look, the Kate thing—it won’t—it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. It wasn’t a problem before beyond just needing to take it slow—but that worked because we were taking it slow anyway.”

 “And the fact that a demon wore my face while torturing you in practically every way possible for two days?  Explain that one away, Derek.”

"I’m not saying it’ll be _easy_ ; I’m saying it can still work.  If we go slow with it, if we give it time, it could still work.  I know that’s a lot for me to ask of you—that’s why I agreed with you about splitting up in the first place—so if it’s too much to pile on top of everything else you’re dealing with then that’s all right. I get it. We can just—”

“It’s not too much.”

“It’s not?”

“Not if we give it time, and we take it slow, like you said.  You _promise_ to tell me where you’re at with things or if I do anything that triggers anything or just _anything_ that sends you back there _._ You _have_ to tell me, all right?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it, Derek. No tough guy acts, okay?  You gotta be honest while we figure out where this can go.”

“I couldn’t lie about it if I tried, you moron,” Derek points out exasperatedly. 

“Shameless lie detector question then,” Stiles replies.  “You’re really okay with this? You really want to do this?”

“Yeah, I do,” he says earnestly.  “Do you?”

“Yeah, of course, sourwolf,” Stiles replies with a grin that wavers quickly when he sees Derek’s reaction.

“Maybe not the nickname yet,” he says quietly, taking a deep breath as he relaxes the fists at his sides.

"Sorry, I didn’t think. It just slipped out, and—”

“It’s not your fault; don’t apologize.  We’ll get there eventually, just—not yet.” He forces a grin.  “If I’m lucky you’ll all forget you even gave me the damn nickname in the first place.”

Stiles doesn’t seem to find his attempt to lighten the mood very amusing.  In fact, he looks like he’s already doubting the decision to keep trying to make things work.      Desperate to stop them backtracking, Derek takes three steps to close the gap between them.  He reaches a hand up to rest it on Stiles’ shoulder, but his eyes are on Stiles’ lips.

“Stay still,” he requests.

Stiles stays carefully motionless as Derek leans in.  Their lips meet for the briefest of moments—Derek can’t help thinking of their first kiss, a much more pleasant memory than he was expecting—and when he pulls back, he can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face.

“See?” he tells Stiles. “Start small; go slow.  We’ll be all right.”  For once, Stiles is quiet, but the smile on his face leads Derek to assume the kiss had the desired effect. “Come on,” Derek says.  “Let’s hit Minnie’s and go over these plans.  I’ll drive.”

_We’ll be all right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm not sorry that things were a little fluffy there at the end...I'm just a sucker for these two. They pull all these happy feels out of me and I can't stop it :) 
> 
> And, yes I know that there were only supposed to be 9 chapters, but I'm also a sucker for epilogues. Stay tuned for that little blip in the next couple days.


	10. Epilogue

When Stiles drives up to the pack house for training, he’s surprised he doesn’t hear the sounds of sparring from the back of the house yet.  In fact, everything’s oddly quiet.

“Anybody here?” he asks as he walks up.

“Kitchen,” Derek replies from within the house.

“Where is everyone?” Stiles asks as he walks in.

“Why can I smell blood on you?” Derek demands, ignoring the question.  “Did you hurt yourself?”

“I—uh—got a tattoo,” Stiles replies with a bashful grin.

“You got a tattoo?”

“Yeah, remember I mentioned Bobby’s suggestion back when we first got the charms?  I’ve been saving up for it so I don’t have to carry the anti-possession charm anymore.   It looks pretty badass; I have to admit.  It’s still got the saran wrap on but you wanna see? I sort of gave it my own touch.”

He pulls his shirt off over his head, still enjoying how much easier that is to do without his casts on. 

“A triskelion?”

"Yeah,” Stiles replies. “Adding it in the middle like that won’t affect the ward. It’ll still work like normal.”

He turns back to face Derek but can’t quite read his reaction.

“I know triskelion’s kind of your thing, but that was kind of half my point. I probably should’ve asked if you minded, but I just kind of added it when I got there. It seemed, right. I didn’t want it to be just some practical protection ward. I kinda wanted it to mean something—so together the two are kind of something to represent pack dynamics, and you, and everything we’ve survived. I hope you don’t mind that I—”

The rest of his sentence is cut off as Derek’s lips crash against his. He’s lost to the moment until words that aren’t his sear across his mind.

_CUT IT OUT._

Though he doesn’t really want to, it forces him to break from Derek immediately.

“What the fuck just happened?!”

“Lydia,” Derek replies, glancing behind Stiles with a small smirk. 

“Come _on_ ,” Lydia complains from where she’s leaning in the kitchen doorway.  “I’ve got four people under mind control in the backyard.  That totally trumps Derek having the hots for your new tattoo.”

“Did you say _mind control_?”

"See for yourself,” Derek replies, nodding to the kitchen window.        

Jackson, Isaac, Scott, and Danny stand in a neat line performing the basic ballet positions over and over with blank expressions on their faces.  Lydia grins smugly. 

“Maybe next training session we’ll take a stab at Swan Lake.”

“Dude, _mind control_?!” Stiles repeats.

“Apparently she’s been practicing on her parents and now she can influence both humans and werewolves,” Derek expounds.

“Well that’s sufficiently terrifying,” Stiles says. 

“Relax. Derek already beat you to the ground rules.  I’m not going to use it except for training.”

“Can you control alphas too?”

“No,” Derek replies.

“Not _yet_ ,” Lydia amends with a determined smile.

“And I was impressed when you levitated your peas at pack dinner last month,” Stiles says.  “You’ve had this up your sleeve the whole time?”

“Not the _whole_ time, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Well, I definitely didn’t see it coming.”

“It’s not very strong yet.  Only the benign suggestions work. Anything too much against their will breaks pretty easily—especially with the wolves.”

“Still, fucking _mind control,_ Lydia.  That’s insane.”

“Says the guy who conjured a twenty foot cyclone of fire last week.”

“So we’ve got the wolfish wielder, the girl with demon blood, the insanely accurate archer with the hacker skills of a Google guru, three strong, lethal beta wolves, and the alpha who rebuilt an entire pack in two years,” Stiles lists with a smile. “Looks like your mongrel pack’s getting to be a pretty impressive bunch, Alpha Hale.”

“Family business,” he reminds them with a grin.

“God help anything stupid enough to attack Beacon Hills,” Lydia adds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading!
> 
> Another sorry I'm not sorry for the self-indulgence in this epilogue. I *really* wanted to establish the tattoo, and I also wanted to leave Part 4 with the definite reminder that the pack isn't just surviving anymore; they're thriving :)
> 
> Shout-out to everyone who's given encouragement and support along the way! Y'all keep me going!

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a timeline yet for posting Part 5, but it'll be along at some point. My life's kind of in flux right now, so there's no reliable estimate of how much time I get to write. I will tease you by saying that Part 5 just *might* include a certain celestial being we all know and love; I'm working on it, anyway. :) 
> 
> If you haven't already and you ever care to, you can find me on tumblr as packdontendwithblood.


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